Decisions
by Chapin CSI
Summary: Gil & Greg slash. After Viva Las Vegas, Greg discovers something about Grissom that will change their lives. NEW: Gil swore he'd made it easy on Greg when -and if- the young man decided to end their relationship. The time has come. Or has it?
1. Chapter one

DECISIONS

Part one.

(Revised on March 2006)

Gil Grissom/Greg Sanders Slash.

Set after Viva Las Vegas

R for language and some sexual content, (nothing graphic).

Greg's planning to find another job. Then a college friend of Grissom's commit suicide. Will Greg help?

* * *

Greg entered his apartment and closed the door. He didn't have much energy for anything, except lean his forehead against the door. 

"Shit, shit, shit." He muttered.

What a shitty day.

First he had failed the proficiency test due to a stupid mistake. After all the hard work –going on the field on top of his normal duties - he'd failed the test.

Sure, Grissom had offered to give him another chance, but now it was a moot point since Chandra had decided to leave.

That was another reason to be angry about: She was quitting after only a couple of days at the lab; why couldn't she tough it up a little? And why the hell couldn't his _friends_ help? They could have been a bit supportive; they knew how much he wanted this! And now they had ruined it-

No.

_He_ had ruined it. _He _had used the bathroom at a crime scene -even Hodges knew was a no, no.

And all because of that large latte he had before joining Grissom at the crime scene.

And that was only the beginning; bad luck had followed him after talking to Grissom. He should have come home to rest, but he was tense and angry, and he needed some sort of release, so he went to the Desert Disco instead. It was the one his friends frequented.

He went in there, looking for a familiar face, and he spotted Tim, a friend he could always count on for a good time. Tim had a stressful job that left him almost no time for a personal relationship, and since Greg didn't want one either, it was perfect for both.

Tim was sitting at the bar, nursing a beer.

"Hey!" Greg greeted.

"Sanders! Just the one I was hoping to see tonight! Wanna dance?" Tim screamed the question in order to be heard over the music.

"Don't have much time for that." Greg screamed back, "I'll be on call tonight."

Tim understood immediately.

"Screw the foreplay, then." Tim said, putting some money on the bar. "Let's go." He said, pushing Greg towards the exit. The dancing couples made their getaway difficult; the floor was packed. Just before they reached the door, Tim playfully pulled Greg into his arms and kissed him. Greg responded –sure, why not? He needed something to boost his self-esteem.

And then, just as he pulled back and looked around for the exit, he met the startled gaze of his boss, Gil Grissom.

Greg groaned as he remembered Grissom's expression of disbelief. They stood, frozen in place for what felt like an eternity but were actually only a few seconds.

Tim shook his shoulder.

"Let's go-" He urged.

Greg didn't move; Grissom was practically blocking the entrance.

Fortunately, Catherine appeared just then. She didn't see Greg; she pulled Grissom aside and told him something. Moments later, they walked towards the club's private area.

Greg gazed after them. They didn't have their kits with them, so they weren't investigating a crime scene. Maybe they were only interviewing someone-

Tim impatiently shook his shoulder.

"What is it, Sanders?" he screamed in his ear. "We got to go!"

"My boss is here!" He screamed back.

"So? You're off the clock right now! Come on!" he said, playfully pushing him towards the exit.

They had gone to Tim's place and carried on their routine of fast, hard sex on the couch, but the mood was somehow broken –and Tim blamed it on Greg. Tim did not sympathize.

"This is all because of your boss, isnt it? Why are you so worried?" Tim asked, "He saw you kissing a guy; big deal! He's not gonna fire you over this, is he?"

"No." Greg glared, picking up his shirt.

"Because if he tries, I'll sue his ass; you can count on it-" Tim said, using the 'case closed' tone that often put people off, "Is he some kind of homophobe?"

"No. No, he's not-" he said, feeling compelled to defend Grissom, "He's a tolerant guy."

"Then what's the big deal?"

Greg didn't know how to explain it; all he knew was that before turning away, Grissom had looked at him as if he were disappointed. And Greg had always worked hard at not disappointing Grissom.

What he still couldn't figure out was what Grissom was disappointed about: That he was kissing a guy or that he was showing feelings of any kind.

"Greg?" Tim insisted.

"I guess-" Greg started, "I guess I feel as if my father had found out about me."

That touched a nerve. Tim's father didn't know that his son was gay, and was always urging him to get married so the family business future could be ensured.

Greg left shortly after that. His parting apology,"Sorry I wasn't better company tonight," did not get much sympathy from Tim.

"Yeah, well." He shrugged, "Next time you pick me up, make sure your boss is in his office, Sanders; you're no fun when he's around."

Grissom and Catherine had waited almost half an hour before Maxwell Patterson, owner of the Desert Disco, came back to his office. Mr. Patterson was and one of three men suspected of forgery in a case they were just starting to investigate.

"Sorry I kept you waiting." He said, flashing a friendly smile.

Catherine handled the questioning. Patterson didn't seemed worried; he had allowed them to sit alone in his office as a grand gesture that said, 'see? I have nothing to conceal' – and he was confident that his own manner would put him above any further suspicion. He didn't know that his ingratiating manner was making Catherine suspicious.

Grissom sat in silence. He was aware of Catherine's questions and Patterson's answers, but his mind was overcrowded with images – the dancing couples, Greg turning his face to kiss that guy, and the kiss itself. It had been a shock for Grissom... and also, apparently, for Greg.

Even in the semi darkness, Grissom had noticed the '_oh, shit' _expression on Greg's face as they looked at each other.

Grissom would have gone over this scenes over and over in his mind, if Catherine's questioning hadn't taken a turn for the worse. It was time to intervene.

"Catherine?" he interrupted, "We have other interviews to do," he added in the calm, 'you've gone too far,' tone she knew so well.

"We'll be in touch, Mr. Patterson." Catherine said as a parting shot.

They didn't talk until they got to the parking lot.

"You were too quiet back there," she glared, "I could have used your help."

"You didn't need it." He said amiably, "You were having too much fun mauling that guy on your own." After a pause, he added, "You were too aggressive, you know."

"I wasn't." she glared, "I just don't believe in _babying_ creeps. Those guys-" she scoffed, "If they're not guilty of one thing, they're guilty of another. They're _all_ the same."

Grissom waited for her to get into the driver's seat, and then he cautiously climbed in.

"I take it the honeymoon is over." He said after a moment, "What did he do?"

"Who?" she asked evasively.

"You know, _who_: That guy you were dating. The club owner."

"That rat." She mumbled, and that was the only thing she would say.

He didn't need more explanations; he understood.

"I'm sorry, Catherine." He said sincerely.

* * *

Greg forced himself to go through his usual pre-shift routine: Shower, clean clothes, cold pizza, and the best coffee he could afford. 

He dreaded the thought of meeting Grissom, but by the time he arrived at the lab he had calmed down, and he had even found a good side to all this: Grissom was a discreet guy; he would not tell anyone what he'd seen.

Grissom would simply –and hopefully- keep it quiet.

But what if he didn't?

Frankly, Greg didn't know what to expect from Grissom, and so, after

thinking it over, he decided to talk to him –the sooner, the better.

Greg looked everywhere and finally found Grissom just as he was about to enter the morgue.

"Hey, boss, can I talk to you?"

"Sure." Grissom said and stopped. His face was expressionless, and that encouraged Greg.

"Hum." Greg looked around, "It's kind of private, so-" he said.

"I'm busy, Greg." Grissom said, buttoning his lab coat, "Is this about a case?"

"No, it's not." He said as if it should be obvious.

"Can't it wait until after this autopsy?

"No." he said, but without much conviction. "I mean, yes it can wait, but-" he hesitated.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"I just wanted to know if... if what you saw tonight..."

Grissom stared at him as if he really didn't know what Greg was talking about.

"You know." Greg said and paused, waiting for some reaction from Grissom. When he got none, he added, "You were at the Disco, and I was there too, and you saw me, and-" he hesitated, "and I wasn't alone, and-"

Grissom could have let him go on, but he was too busy.

"Greg." He interrupted, "I never get involved in my coworkers' private lives." He paused, hoping he had made a point. Just to make sure, he asked, "All right?"

"All right." Greg said, but he was so relieved, he couldn't help to add, "I was worried, you know? I mean, you never know what people's reaction is gonna be. People change sometimes-"

"Greg?" he interrupted again, "I'm very busy. And so are you."

"Yes, sir." Greg said formally. "We're cool, then?"

"Yes." Grissom said, turning away.

* * *

A couple of weeks after that conversation, Greg reluctantly came to a disappointing conclusion: Grissom might not get involved in his coworkers' private lives, but he was obviously _not_ cool about what he'd seen. Grissom had been avoiding him. 

In the weeks prior to that incident Grissom had taken Greg along on several of his investigations, but not once since that night. It seemed justifiable at first; after all, each of the other CSI's had plenty to teach him.

But when a case involving maggots came up and he offered to help, Grissom refused, and sent him to work with Catherine... who did what she always did: Make him go to the lab to process her DNA samples. This, despite the fact that there was a new chemist there.

Which brought him to his second problem: Jerry, Greg's second choice to replace him at the lab, was making it plain that he was under too much pressure and didn't know if he'd be able to handle it for long; not unless the CSI's cut him some slack.

Greg had convinced Jerry to give it a try, but didn't know if the guy would last much longer. Greg suspected that if things didn't change in the next couple of weeks, he was going to be back in the lab and all his efforts to be CSI would be for nothing.

Greg had begun to wonder if the time had come for some radical decisions. There were other options after all.

That night, Grissom called for a meeting to discuss their current cases. They were listening as Nick explained that the Prosecutor was not relying on the evidence, but on the witnesses, when his phone rang. He answered, expecting to hear from Robbins, who had promised to deliver the results from an autopsy, but it wasn't him.

It was someone who Grissom had not heard from in years.

"It's Carl Bernard." The voice said.

Grissom frowned.

"Bernie?" he was genuinely surprised. He could not remember the last time he had talked to Carl.

"Gil, I've got some bad news."

"What news?" he asked, and he rose from his seat, turning his back on his colleagues for a little privacy. "Bernie?"

"It's..." he hesitated, "Look, you might want to turn on CNN-".

"What happened?" he frowned.

"It's John." He faltered. "He's dead."

The surprise on Grissom's face changed to disbelief and, for what seemed like a split second, to pain. He made an enormous effort to speak.

"Hold on a second, Bernie" he said; he turned to his team, "Sara, could you turn on the TV? There's something on CNN that I'm supposed to see-"

Sara used the remote.

There was an ongoing report.

"-shot himself at his home this afternoon." an anchorman was saying. He was sharing the screen with the picture of a white-haired man. "Dr. John Garrison had not showed any signs of depression prior to his death, but there is some speculation-"

"John Garrison." Repeated Sara. "Isn't he one of your old friends from college?"

"Yeah." He mumbled, his eyes fixed on the screen. The anchorman was explaining that Garrison had taught a class at UCLA the day before; he had calmly told his students that he wouldn't be seeing them for a while; that he was going away. In fact, the anchorman added, Professor Garrison had been forced into taking early retirement due to health issues-

Grissom stared at the screen for a while, even after the news turned to sports. Then, he mechanically picked up the phone again.

"Gil? Are you there?"

"Yeah." He said hoarsely. He cleared his throat and added, "Thanks, Bernie."

"I thought you'd want to know -"

"Yeah. Thanks. Do the others know?"

"I don't know," he said. "So far, I've only talked to Janice. She says we should all get together for a wake. She says Johnnie would have liked it-"

"She just wants an excuse to drink." Grissom said, smiling faintly. He suddenly became aware that everybody was looking at him. "Bernie, I've got to hang up; I'll talk to you later."

Grissom pocketed his phone and returned to his seat. There was a moment's silence that Nick broke.

"Poor guy" he said.

"So, Grissom." Said Catherine, "What do you think happened to him?"

"We hadn't talked in years." Grissom said simply, and then he looked at Nick, "Go on,"

"With what?" Nick asked innocently.

Grissom glared impatiently.

"With the _case_, Nick."

The CSI's glanced at one another. They had assumed that Grissom would need a moment alone after the news, but apparently he was ok.

A couple of days later, Greg decided to talk to Grissom.

He had put off this conversation several times already, out of respect for his boss. Grissom had enough in his mind; not just the cases but also the death of friend.

Time was running out, however, and Greg needed to make some arrangements.

He knocked on the door, even though it was open. Greg no longer entered Grissom's office as if he were a pal dropping by to talk; now he waited until Grissom asked him in.

Grissom was so deep in thought that Greg had to knock twice. He looked up.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Hey, boss," Greg said tentatively, "Can I talk to you?"

Grissom nodded.

Greg entered the office and took a seat.

"I haven't seen you that much these past couple of days." he said tentatively, "You ok?"

"Yes." Grissom said curtly.

"I guess it's been kind of hard for you," he said gently, "I mean, because of what happened to your friend-"

Grissom looked expressionlessly at him. Greg tried again.

"Were you two close? He looked older than-"

"Greg," he interrupted, "I'm busy right now."

"Oh. Sorry. I thought-" Greg began, and then stopped. Clearly, Grissom didn't want to talk about his dead friend. "Here," he said, taking an envelope from a shirt pocket. "I've just got a letter from the Journal of Forensic Sciences," he said, "Wanna see it? It's-"

"Greg?" Grissom interrupted, "If this isn't about work, then maybe it can wait."

Greg was taken aback. He wanted to share some good news with the only person who would really appreciate them, but it seemed that Grissom just wasn't in the mood for anything for work.

Well, that was fine by him. It was about time they talked about work.

"I'd talk to you about work if you gave me an assignment, but you didn't." He pointed out, "Again."

"I need you to give a hand to that guy Jerry. He's been delaying our cases-"

Greg took a deep breath.

"I thought I was going to work in the field," He said, "Besides, Jerry's doing a good job." He said, "He's working as fast as any human being would-"

"-and I want you to help him." Grissom said, in a tone that didn't let any room for discussions.

They stared at each other.

"Grissom," Greg started, "Are you..." he paused, "I mean, is there anything..." but he couldn't finish.

"Yes?"

Greg wanted to ask if there was anything the matter. He couldn't shake the feeling that Grissom had been avoiding him, but he didn't know how to ask without sounding like a whining little kid. And so, he changed the subject.

"Look," he said, "I've been meaning to tell you-" he started, "I'm going to need a couple of days off," he said, "You still owe me some vacation time, and, well..."

"How many days are we talking about?"

"Four days."

"_Four_ days?"

"Yes, sir." He said formally. "Starting on Thursday the 15th."

"Next Thursday?" he frowned. "Greg, we're behind on several cases-"

"I know," Greg interrupted. "I'm going to make sure that Jerry catches up," he added, "But I need the time off." he said firmly. He wasn't going to beg –not yet. "I've been invited to the Forensic Convention in Chicago." He said.

"Have you?" Grissom frowned.

"Yeah." He nodded, and then he smiled faintly, "Remember the article I wrote for the Journal?" He paused for effect, "It won a prize," he said, "They're going to include it in the next issue."

"Really? Congratulations." Grissom said, genuinely glad, "I didn't know."

"Yeah, well." Greg looked pointedly at his boss, "We haven't had time to talk lately."

Grissom looked down. For a moment it seemed that he was searching for something to say, but he was actually reading something from a sheet of paper on top of his desk.

"You don't need four days, Greg." He said, and then he looked up, "The Journal is presenting its awards the first day of the convention."

And he lifted the sheet so Greg could glance at it; it was a schedule. Greg had received one just like it in the mail. Actually, everyone at CSI got one, but few were really interested in going to the convention; it cost money, and few had the time.

"I'm planning to stay for he entire convention," Greg said slowly, "I'd like to check out the meat market."

"Meat market?" Grissom frowned. He knew that people attending conventions in search of a job were sometimes called fresh meat, but that didn't make things any clearer, "Why?" he asked.

Greg avoided Grissom's curious stare and instead focused his attention on the wall behind his boss. It was easier this way.

"I want to see what my options are." he explained.

Grissom was sincerely puzzled.

"You're looking for a new job?" Grissom asked, "Why?"

"Well..." Greg paused, "I really want to be a CSI, Grissom, I don't think I'll never become one if I stay here."

"Greg, you can't just _become_ a CSI, you need training and experience-"

"-and I'll never get any experience if you keep sending me back to the lab." He retorted.

"A CSI needs to learn about _patience_ too, Greg." Grissom said in a slightly patronizing tone.

"I can be patient." Greg replied, "But you've been-"

But he could not finish what he wanted to say because Catherine entered the office just then.

"Hey, Grissom," Catherine said, ignoring Greg. She looked supremely pissed off. "Did I understand correctly that message you left on my phone? Something about taking four days off, just as the cases are piling up?"

"Yes." Grissom nodded, looking not at Catherine but at Greg. "I need you to take over while I go to the Forensic Sciences Convention in Chicago."

TBC


	2. chapter two

DECISIONS

Part two

I think the title sucks, but I just can't find another.

Brief, slightly unflattering mention of Horatio Crane.

This chapter was edited on March 2006.

* * *

Greg's request for vacation time was granted, and he and Grissom ended up going on the same flight. Since they had booked their flight at the last minute, they'd been forced to take aisle seats.

Greg was reading a book when the flight attendant bumped into him yet again. He smiled at her, and told her it was ok.

He was resigned to his fate, anyway. If you had an aisle seat, then it was a given that there would always be someone poking at you with a tray, a bag, or an elbow. But then flying wasn't any fun unless you did it on first class.

But the editors of The Journal couldn't afford first class tickets; and neither could Greg. Just paying for a four-day stay in Chicago had wiped a big part of his meager savings. Still, he didn't mind the expense; he considered it an investment. This was his chance to find out whether he had better chances of becoming CSI in another city.

Greg put his book down. His initial enthusiasm had diminished a bit these past days. He doubted he'd take another job, so easily. These past days, he'd come to realize how much he liked his job and the people he worked with.

He couldn't imagine not working with Warrick and Sara, and Nick. He'd also miss Catherine, who had insisted on tacking the letter from the Journal on the bulletin board, so everybody knew they had a published author in their team.

Sometimes he wondered if going back to the lab wasn't the wisest choice. After all, Grissom had offered him another chance at the proficiency test, but what if he failed again? What if being a CSI was not the best job, after all?

Maybe if he went back to his old job, then Grissom would go back to being his old self and stop avoiding him-

Greg glanced at his boss, who was sitting a few seats behind. Grissom didn't seem upset about having an aisle seat. He'd probably forgotten that he was in a plane; his whole attention had been centered on his lap top since take off.

If Greg found another job, he'd miss the guys, but he'd probably miss Grissom the most. He already missed the easy connection they had always shared; and while taking this trip together might give them a chance to reconnect, so far Grissom had kept his distance, and Greg had respected that.

Now he wondered if that was a mistake. After all, he'd always been the one doing all the talking; if he waited for Grissom to make the first move, then he'd have to wait years. Greg smiled mischievously; maybe he should go and talk to Grissom.He had always known how to disarm the old man.

Greg stood up –accidentally elbowing the man sitting next to him. He muttered an apology, and then another, as he collided with a flight attendant.

Grissom didn't notice any of this.

Greg leant against the seat in front of his boss, but Grissom didn't look up. Hoping to get his attention, Greg stooped to read the text on Grissom's lap top. He was good at reading upside down.

"You should put a comma right there." He said, pointing at a phrase in the middle of the screen.

Grissom blinked. He was surprised to see Greg's face so close to his.

"Thanks." He muttered, adding the comma.

"Welcome." Greg smiled. "So, what are you doing? Are you giving a speech at the convention?"

"I'll be talking about some cases." He said curtly, hoping to discourage Greg from making more questions. But of course, it didn't work.

"What cases?"

"The Huntington case-"

"Ah, the bug case." Greg said, ignoring Grissom's obvious impatience, "You solved it by establishing that the air conditioner had been tampered with." He kept reading. "It's funny," he said, conversationally, "I thought you didn't attend conventions."

"I do." He contradicted. "Occasionally."

"Yeah, but only when there are cockroach races involved."

"Greg?" Grissom asked, keeping his gaze on the screen. "Shouldn't you be preparing a speech or something?"

"Me? Nah." He said cockily. "I'm going to rely on spontaneity."

"Well, I'm not; so-" he paused, hoping Greg would understand.

"Ok, boss." Greg said affably, "I'll let you work."

Grissom briefly looked up to see him go back to his seat, and then turned his attention back to the screen.

When they arrived at the Chicago airport, Greg picked up their conversation as if there had been no interruption.

"So, Grissom," he asked as he carefully folded a suit bag over his arm, "what's the big deal about this convention?"

"I'm attending Dr. John Garrison's wake." Grissom said, hoping the truth would shut up the chemist.

Greg stopped.

"The guy who committed suicide?"

"Uh, huh." Grissom nodded, juggling his lap top and a suitcase.

"I've been reading about him," Greg said tentatively, "He had this impressive curriculum- What do you think happened to him, Grissom?"

"He put a gun in his mouth." Grissom said abruptly.

"Yeah, but why? You've got to be curious-"

"I'm not." Grissom glanced around; the hotel had promised to send a taxi for him.

"Maybe there is no mistery," Greg mused aloud, "This guy lived alone and he didn't have any family-" he shook his head, "No wonder he killed himself."

Grissom winced.

"It's sad." Greg added as an afterthought.

"It's an occupational hazard." Grissom said after a moment.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, people in forensics tend to be an unhappy bunch." He explained, "Most of them burn out and take early retirement or simply change careers. There's also a high percentage of divorces _and_ suicides, and a high consumption of alcohol and pills -"

"Really?" he asked, genuinely interested.

"You might want to reconsider your career choice, Greg." Grissom said, looking at Greg for the first time. "Maybe you'd be better off staying at the lab."

Greg stared back.

"And what's your favorite palliative, boss?" he challenged, "Booze or pills?"

"Neither."

"And you're not divorced and you're not retiring or changing careers," Greg added, "you're not part of the unhappy bunch, then." Greg said, "Me neither."

When they entered the hotel, they met chaos. Visitors from different parts of the country had come to the convention and were demanding to be installed in their rooms. An elderly man carrying a glass jar made things worse when he accidentally let it slip from his grasp. The jar broke, sending bloody fragments of glass and liver all over the white carpet. Most of those present worked in forensics, so they reacted by making rude jokes.

A harsh and raspy female voice rose above the others and caught Grissom's attention.

"Remember taking classes with old 'Slippery Hand', Gil?"

"Janice Mahoney." Grissom said before turning.

He smiled at a tall, redheaded woman who was greedily smoking the last of her cigarette before throwing the butt on the carpet.

"Gil Grissom." She said, walking into his arms for a warm hug. When they pulled apart, Grissom noticed her bloodshot eyes and the scent of nicotine that permeated her hair, her clothes, and her skin itself.

"Jan," he sighed, "you promised to stop smoking-"

"Baby, don't worry," She said, patting his cheek. "I'm fine. Nicotine energizes me."

"We've talked about this-" he insisted.

"Gil, I'm fine." She repeated, and then she added with a naughty smile, "Hey, I don't always look like this, you know; I just need my beauty sleep!"

Greg smiled to himself. She must be joking. She might have been a pretty woman once, but clearly, she didn't care anymore.

"Listen; we'll be six for the wake," She was saying, "Bernie and Fox are in their rooms already. You're in 718," she said, handing a key to Grissom, "I've been thinking that if we skip the big banquet we could have the wake on the fourth night. What do you think?"

But before Grissom could answer, she abruptly turned to Greg, who had been following their conversation, "Excuse me, who are you?" she glared.

Greg ignored her hostility and took a step closer.

"I'm Greg Sanders," He said cordially, "DNA expert at Las Vegas Lab, and CSI hopeful."

Janice looked at Grissom, who continued the introductions.

"Greg, this is Janice Mahoney," Grissom said, "My oldest friend."

"Jeeze, Gil" she protested, "You could have said that I'm your 'best friend' or your 'dearest friend,' you know. Calling me your _oldest_ friend is harsh!" but she was smiling, "So, Mr. Sanders," she said, looking at Greg, "You are here to do -what?"

"I'm getting an award from the journal." Greg said proudly.

"Oh." Janice said appraisingly. She glanced from Grissom to Greg as if she expected more explanations.

"He's also looking for a job in another city." Grissom added.

"Oh, really?" She blinked, "Well, it's a jungle out there, Mr. Sanders." She turned to Grissom, "Thank God we don't have to hustle for jobs anymore."

"You never did." Grissom glared. "You always had more job offers than anybody could handle-"

She smiled, showing off disgustingly stained teeth.

"Yeah. The good old times. Listen, Gil." She said, taking Grissom's arm, "Go to your room, Ok? Take a little nap. We'll be having dinner together at eight. It might be our only chance to talk about the wake, you know. Once the conferences kick off, we'll be too busy." She glanced back at Greg. "You should come, too. You should see what it's like to grow old in Forensics." She turned to Grissom, "And now, if you'll excuse me, I need my beauty sleep."

* * *

Grissom didn't sleep; he lay in bed for an hour, looking at the ceiling. He didn't look forward to see his old college friends. They _had _met over the years, mostly on conferences and seminars like this, and they had usually ended up at the hotel bar, talking about their jobs and their cases.

But getting together to remember John was entirely different. It was bound to get emotional. Just the kind of situation that Grissom avoided, and the reason why he had always avoided attending the conferences that John organized.

Grissom took a deep breath.

"Hey, old friend." He said aloud. _Are you here? Are you watching over me?_

Grissom smiled. John had often poked fun at Grissom for his beliefs; John had taken pride in the fact that he didn't believe in souls, or spirits, or God.

Grissom remembered the last time they talked about it. He had just testified in a case that involved child abuse and murder, and John had made a rare phone call.

"Do you still believe in God, Gil?" he'd challenged.

"Absolutely," Grissom had answered bitterly, "Otherwise, who else could I blame for all this shit?"

It was the last time they talked. There'd been e-mails now and then, but-

Grissom rubbed his face.

_Better not think about that now. _

He got up. He thought that a walk might do him some good, but it was a cold and windy night, and so he decided to stay indoors.

He checked out the tennis court and the gym, and then he went to the hotel lobby to get a program for the conference.

He wasn't the only one asking for information; Greg was already there, reading a booklet and making notes.

"Hey, Greg."

"Hey, Grissom." He greeted, without looking up.

"Did they give you a room at last?" he asked. Greg's room hadn't been vacated by its former occupant and had had to wait.

"Yeah."Greg answered distractedly. "It's the size of a closet," he scowled.

"You booked too late."

"Yeah. But hey, it's ok. I'll probably won't be sleeping in it anyway."

He'd said it as a joke, the kind he would have told at any other time, but he cringed immediately. He glanced at Grissom, but the older man didn't comment.

"Is that the program?" he asked instead.

"Yeah." Greg handed him the booklet, "I was checking up the conferences I want to attend."

"So, you're planning on staying busy." Grissom said, noticing the numerous check marks on the program.

"Oh, yeah." He nodded, "Lots to do, lots to learn…" he said, "Plus, if I play my cards well, by the end of each day I'll have several job offers."

Grissom felt a sudden pang of regret at the prospect of losing his colleague.

"Greg, about that," he cleared his throat, "I think-"

Greg looked up.

"What?" he asked, looking expectantly.

Grissom was taken aback by the intensity of Greg's question.

"Well-" Grissom opened his mouth to say one thing but ended up saying another. "If you need a personal reference-"

Greg's expression of incredulity told him he had said the wrong thing. Fortunately for him, the awkward moment didn't last long; someone suddenly clapped his back and greeted him as if he were still a college kid.

"Heeeeey, Chip!"

Several guys surrounded Grissom, forcing Greg to step back. Janice was there, and indeed the 'beauty sleep' had done nothing for her. But she was smiling, and Greg always responded to that. She took his arm and introduced him to her old college friends: Carl 'Bernie' Bernard, Frank Jones, Peter Duel, and Walter Fox.

Janice motioned them to a table at the far end of the restaurant.

"Hey, Grissom?" Greg asked as they were taking their seats, "Why do they call you Chip?"

Grissom considered not telling him, but Bernie intervened.

"It's short for Chipmunk." he said merrily.

Greg still didn't get it.

"My cheeks, Greg," Grissom explained reluctantly.

"Oh. Oh, I get it." He smiled widely, ignoring Grissom's scowl. Greg glanced at Grissom's colleagues. "If you graduated with these guys, how come they're so much older than you?"

Janice choked on the piece of bread she was munching on.

"Hey, I resent that!" snowy-haired Dr. Bernard protested, half joking. "He's just a few years younger, you know!"

"But you look like you're our grandpa, Bernie," Janice said, still coughing a little, "Let's face it; we all look like hell."

"Carl is the oldest," Frank explained, "He was already a lawyer when he joined us."

"And Gil was our _enfant précoce_." Duel said. "We were in our mid or late twenties when he started taking classes-"

"He was an angel-faced kid-" Janice said with a smile, "-who seemed to know everything-"

"And who was good at everything he did-" added Bernie.

"Including poker," Janice added, "I should have just paid for your books instead of letting you fleece me on the table, Gil-" she looked around, "Hey, why don't we do that at the wake? Play poker, I mean. Garrison loved playing-"

They began to talk about the wake and Greg simply listened. And absorbed.

* * *

Grissom skipped a conference in order to attend the Journal of Forensics award ceremony. True to his word, Greg had improvised his speech, but it had been quite good; witty and brief- just perfect, the best two minutes of the whole tedious affair.

When the ceremony ended, Grissom tried to congratulate him, but the young man was quickly surrounded by members of the journal staff and one or two CSI supervisors he knew by sight.

Greg glanced around however, and smiled when he spotted Grissom.

"Look at it!" he said, waving his award in a gesture of triumph.

Grissom smiled back, but kept his distance. Seeing the interest that people were showing on Greg, he didn't doubt that the chemist would get several job offers, indeed.

He turned and left.

On Saturday morning, Grissom had an early breakfast. He had a full day ahead.

Suddenly, there was apitiful moan coming from someone standing behind him.

"Oooh, my head."

Grissom closed his eyes in exasperation. Janice was hungover. Again.

He turned. Janice didn't really look any worse with a hangover, but she voice was hoarser, and her manner apologetic as she sat opposite Grissom.

"Hey, Gil." She said.

"Coffee, Jan?" he said, pushing his own cup towards her.

"Thanks, baby." She said, slurping the coffee until she finished the cup. "Aaah." She sighed, "I don't care what they say; coffee cures any ailment."

"Grapefruit?" Grissom offered, "Melon?" he paused, and then he asked resignedly, "Greasy eggs and bacon?"

"Baby, if you know what I like," she said in a throaty, seductive voice, "Why do you ask?"

Grissom smiled despite himself. He went to the buffet and brought back more coffee and the food she liked. She ate quietly while he ate some oatmeal.

"So? No talk this morning?" she teased, as she spared a crisp bacon strip, "No warnings on the evils of alcohol and cholesterol?"

"No."

She looked at him.

"No?" she frowned.

"It's your life." He said simply.

She put down her fork.

"Hey-" she said, tentatively, "Don't talk like that. I count on you to keep me on the straight and narrow."

"With mixed results," he finished.

She stared at him and suddenly her eyes narrowed.

"Wait a minute. You're using 'tough love,' aren't you? Making me think you don't care, so I panic-"

"Is it working?" he asked.

"No." she glared.

He scowled and continued eating. She stared at him for a moment.

"I'm sorry." She said after a moment. "Really, I am."

Grissom looked up, his expression completely unreadable.

"You worry too much." She said.

"Maybe." He admitted.

They ate in silence, but she glanced at him now and then, trying to find the right thing to say.

"Gil…" she cleared her throat, "I… Hum…" she looked around and lowered her voice, "How are you doing?" she asked. Grissom lifted an eyebrow, and she smiled sheepishly. "I know, I know-" she said, "I should know better than to ask you that. You never talk about _feelings_."

She looked down at her plate for a moment, "Still... as your _oldest_ friend, I think I'm entitled to ask," she said, "And I'm also entitled to some answers." She looked expectantly at him, but he didn't comment. She patted Grissom's hand. "I've been worried about you." she said, "When I got the news of John's death, I immediately thought of you-"

Grissom put his spoon down.

"That was almost thirty years ago, Jan." he said patiently. "Ancient history."

He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to admit that when Bernie called with the news of their friend's death, Grissom realized that to him, John had been dead all these years, and Bernie was only reminding him of the fact.

"So, how are you doing?" She insisted.

"I'm fine." He said simply.

"You always say that." She scowled, "Even when you were at the hospital with a ruptured ulcer-"

"Well, I'm better at managing my stress now."

"I know; you simply make your troubles disappear, as if by magic," She said cynically.

"At least I don't try to _drown_ them." He retorted.

"All right, all right," she said.

She idly glanced around; there were a lot of college students here, most of them gorging themselves on the only free meal they would get today. She could imagine the amount of food that was going to end up in pockets and bags. She had never been a starving student, but she had smuggled food for her friends, including Gil.

"Oh, look behind you," she said suddenly. Her attention had been drawn to a spot on the other side of the room. Greg Sanders was having breakfast with CSI Horatio Crane from Miami. "The human 'tinaja' is courting your Greg Sanders." She said.

Grissom didn't turn.

"What the hell is a _tinaja_?" he frowned.

"You would know if you had come with us to Tijuana, instead of staying to study for finals," she glared. "Tinajas are red clay jars that have two handles. And Crane likes to pose like this." She put her hands on her waist; "See?" she mocked Crane's posture, "the human tinaja."

Grissom chuckled.

"Hey, you smiled like you mean it!" Janice said happily, "Good."

Grissom rolled his eyes, but he kept the smile on; he always ended up doing this for Janice. They had always liked each other. Janice's mothering instinct was dormant most of the time, but Grissom somehow stirred it awake.

"Don't you want to see what they're doing?" she teased, "For all we know, the human tinaja might be convincing Sanders of trading Nevada heat for Miami vice."

She looked intently at him; Grissom ignored her as long as he could, but it was pissing him off.

"What?" he glared.

"Nothing. I was just wondering why your Greg Sanders wants to leave Las Vegas."

"He thinks I'm keeping him from becoming a CSI." he explained.

"Are you?"

"I'm..." he hesitated, "I don't want him to try and fail." he said, "He's too eager. He needs a little more experience."

"Have you explained this to him?"

He didn't answer.

"Gil, if I had a CSI like Sanders in my team, I'd try to keep him." She said slowly, "He's got brains, he's loyal... Plus, he's funny and cute." She added. She took her fork and used it to steal a raisin from Grissom's bowl of cereal. "If there's anything wrong with him, I'd like to know. I've talked to him a couple of times, and I'd like to offer him a position in Oregon."

"There's nothing wrong with him."

"Except?" she prompted, stealing another raisin.

"Do you want some of this oatmeal?" he asked hopefully.

"Nah. Two raisins are enough fiber for a day." She replied, "And don't change the subject. What's wrong with him?"

Grissom hesitated.

"There's nothing wrong-"

"Except?" she prompted.

Grissom took a deep breath. He'd never talk about this with anybody, except Jan.

"There's nothing wrong," he said slowly, "except that he's funny and he's cute."

She stopped chewing.

"Oh." She muttered. "_Oh_."

"Yeah." He said, understanding her dismay.

"Oh, Gil." She sighed, putting down her fork. "Does he know? Is that why he's looking for another job?"

"I didn't _tell _him, Jan." he glared.

"Is he gay?"

"Yes." He said with some hesitation, "I guess." He added and then he shrugged, "It doesn't matter."

"Oh, baby-"

"Hey, it's ok." He said reassuringly. "Really."

"To tell you the truth-" she said, "I thought there was something going on between you two, at first. You were traveling together, and God knows you hate doing that- And he's fond of you," she said tentatively, "It's clear, from the way he talks about you. He's always asking questions about you, and-"

"Enough, Jan." He glared. "Don't try to get romantic on me."

"Why not? At my age, I take love whenever and wherever it rears its little face." She patted his hand, "So should you."

"It's not that simple."

"I know. Nothing is simple when it comes to you." She said gently, "But this is the first time that you- I mean, it's been years-"

Grissom didn't want to talk about it anymore. He was embarrassed, actually. He didn't want to admit that seeing a guy kissing another had awaken feelings that he'd kept under control for a lifetime.

"You deserve to be happy." She said and he snorted.

"Platitudes from you, Jan?" he teased.

"Ok, then-" She said, and her eyes twinkled, "You deserve to get laid." She looked over Grissom's shoulder, "Besides, I doubt that the tinaja's the right boss for him."

"You take him, then."

She looked at him, and she shook her head.

"You can't wait to get rid of him, can you?" she said, and he recognized an edge of anger in her voice, "You don't want anybody disturbing your world." she shook her head, "Tell me his: Are you sure you won't regret letting him go?"

"Everybody leaves, sooner or later."

He said it so matter-of-factly, that her anger quickly dissolved.

"Oh, Gil." She sighed. "What did they do to you?"

"Nothing." He said softly.

TBC


	3. Chapter three

DECISIONS

Part Three

Note: I've just realized that I named one of Grissom's friends, 'Walter Fox'. (And here I thought I was over The X-Files…)

Another name I used is Peter Duel: He was a great actor who committed suicide during the seventies.

* * *

Decisions, part three

"One, please." Greg said, "With mustard."

He kept his hands under his armpits while the street vendor prepared his hot dog.

"Man, it's cold today!" he said unnecessarily, and the hot dog guy merely glanced at him.

Greg came from Norwegian stock and he had endured colder weather than this, but he had grown used to the dry heat of the desert, and he had not brought enough clothes.

Then, to top it all off… he didn't have enough money to buy a large latte with cream and shaved chocolate. The creamy concoction would have warmed his freezing hands and comforted his empty stomach.

He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast –and since CSI Horatio Crane had peppered him with questions about his background, he hadn't eaten much even then. Not that Crane had let him answer either; every time Greg began to warm up to a subject, Crane found a way to turn the conversation back to himself and what _he _had done in Miami.

In these three days Greg had met several CSI supervisors, and it didn't look promising. Some of them were impressed by his rèsumé, but most had objected to anything from his age to his hair style.

And others seemed more interested in finding out what sort of boss Grissom was.

Walter Fox, for instance. He was in no position to offer him a job, since he didn't work in forensics anymore, but he had asked questions nevertheless.

"Working in Forensics is a stressful job." He said, as if Greg didn't know; "I bet Gil doesn't make it easier, does he? Is he still a cold-hearted bastard?"

Greg had not said anything.

"_I_ know how it is." Fox added, "We shared duties in Chicago, a long time ago." Fox looked into his beer for a moment, and then he turned to Greg, "Can I give you a piece of advice, Sanders? Never do anything to disappoint Gil Grissom. He never forgets, and he never forgives."

"Here," the hot dog guy said, interrupting his thoughts.

Greg paid for his hot dog and ate it slowly, making it last. He still had another day ahead; he had to be careful or he wouldn't have enough money to pay for his meals.

Greg wasn't complaining. He was starving, but at least he had a job. There were lots of hard-up guys and girls hanging out at the convention; some were trying to get jobs while others were trying to get financial support for their investigations. As Grissom's friend Janice Mahoney had said, 'If being young means to be jobless and hungry, then I'd rather be old.'

Greg smiled.

He and Janice had spent yesterday afternoon together. They met accidentally, just as they were leaving a boring conference at the same time. She had offered to introduce him to some of her colleagues, but after a while they realized that what they really wanted was to go for a walk: Greg wanted to see a little of Chicago, and Janice wanted to reminisce.

Off they went.

They walked and window-shopped, and later, over coffee and doughnuts -which was all he could afford- they had talked about everything from college and old friends, to cases and jobs.

Janice had teased him.

"I bet you're a handful," she said with a smile. "I'm sure you keep poor Gil on his toes."

"Nah," he smiled, "I'm well-behaved at all times."

She ruffled his hair.

"You're lucky, you know? Other CSI bosses wouldn't let you wear it like this."

"So I've been told," he nodded. "I guess I'd have to tone it down." He admitted. "If I took another job, I mean."

"Any offers so far?"

"A couple." he shrugged. "I've talked to several guys from all over the country and tomorrow I'm having breakfast with a guy named Crane, from Miami."

Greg told her all about his interviews.

"They ask me all sorts of questions," he said, "but I only ask them one: _Which is your most memorable case_?"

"Their most memorable case?" she repeated.

"Yeah. I believe it tells me something about the person I'm talking to."

"But that's a little subjective, isn't it?"

"Sure. But it gives me some leverage. I mean, they're being subjective too. They grade me according to what they _see_ -and that is subjective enough- and I grade them according to what they _say_."

"And?" she coaxed. "Have you given any A's?"

"Only one." he admitted. "So far, one guy told me that all cases were the same: 'just slabs of dead meat waiting to be prodded' –not very inspiring- while another just looked at me and said, 'hey, after a while they all stink the same.' On the other hand there were a couple of guys who told me stories that seemed taken out of Perry Mason-" he chuckled.

"Ah. The intrepid coroner who solves cases by himself," she smiled knowingly. "What about me?" she asked, "Aren't you going to ask me?"

"Nah. No need. You've already passed. A."

She laughed.

Later the conversation turned to Grissom.

"I used to have a _huge_ crush on him," she blurted out.

"Really?" Greg smiled widely.

"Can you believe it?" she asked. "And I wasn't the only one. He was so gorgeous-"

"And what happened?" Greg asked. "Did you two…?"

"Oh, no. Never. I was older than him, and-" She shrugged, "After a while all I wanted to do was to _mother _him."

"Oh." His expression fell. They were silent for a moment, and then he looked at her, "You know what? I think you would have been good for him."

"You think so?" she smiled.

"Absolutely." Greg nodded eagerly. He touched his cup of coffee against hers, "You would have rocked his world."

She was pleased.

"You're right." She said, lifting her cup of coffee in a mock toast. "I would have."

They smiled at each other.

"You know…" Greg said after a moment, "I've been kinda worried about Grissom."

"Really? Why?"

"Well, I've been reading about Dr. Garrison, and-" he hesitated, "it was like reading about Grissom."

"Was it?" she asked noncommittally.

"Yeah. I googled Dr. Garrison and…There was all this information available; page after page, you know? And yet it was all about his job; there was no mention of any family, just a list of accomplishments. He spent most of his time on campus, he didn't have any close friends-"

"Well…"

"And Grissom's just like him. _He_ spends all his time at the lab; it's almost like he lives there. When we come in at night he's already there, and when we go home, he stays behind-"

"Greg, we have jobs that absorb our time," She said slowly "_I_ barely go home when I'm on a big case. Then, there's paperwork to take care of, and meetings to go to. When someone goes home on time, he's either neglecting his job, or taking it with him. Personally, I'd rather not take it with me. My home is my sanctuary. I'm sure Gil feels the same."

Janice looked down, "As for relationships…" she shrugged, "Let's just say that it's hard to have one when time's so limited. It's not _impossible_, but if you knew what some of my colleagues' families go through-" she shook her head. "So, don't worry about him, ok?"

She looked thoughtfully at Greg, "You're a good friend." She said, "I wish we all had someone like you worrying about us."

After a moment she rose to buy some muffins to go, while Greg finished his coffee.

They took a different route to go back to the hotel.

Janice smiled wistfully when they walked past a second-hand bookstore.

"These places always remind me of Gil. While the rest of us were at some bar, he was at some bookstore looking for some obscure volume-"

"I think he still does that." He smiled.

"Sometimes, when the weather was good, Gil and I would grab a couple of books and my portable record player, and go to some park. We'd listen to opera for _hours_ -" She said, and there was a far away look on her face.

"He still listens to opera." Greg said.

"-we read _piles _of books," she added, "everything from Shakespeare to Asimov, and poetry… but I could tell he liked Conan Doyle." She winked at Greg, "He liked Holmes. He was entirely focused on the job and didn't need a personal life."

"Even Holmes had a friend." Greg muttered.

Janice looked curiously at him.

"Tell me." She said after a while, "What sort of boss is Gil?"

"He's ok." Greg shrugged.

"Whoa. That doesn't sound too thrilling."

Greg smiled.

"Sorry." He said. They walked for another block before he continued, "Actually, after talking to some people here, I realize I'm lucky to work for him. It's just that lately he's been-" he paused, trying to put his thoughts in order, "Look," he finally said, "It's my fault. I screwed up during a case. And then I screwed up some more, and-"

He shrugged, unwilling to give details, "I don't think he's ever going to see past those mistakes. He expects us to be unemotional," he said and then he looked up, "It's not that he's insensitive," he quickly added, "He just keeps his emotions under control, and that's a tough act to follow."

"Ah, Greg," she sighed, shaking her head.

She didn't say anything for a moment. She wished she could tell Greg the kind of man Gil really was, but she didn't think Grissom would appreciate that.

"Listen," she said, looking at him very seriously, "If you screwed up, then you have to do better. This job of ours is very demanding." She paused until he nodded. Then she added in a softer tone, "But remember: Gil may be a very tough boss, but he's harder on himself than on anybody else. He's the most generous man that I've ever met, too."

When they got back to the hotel, she kissed him on the cheek and gave him the muffins she'd bought earlier.

"Good night, and luck with that Miami guy." she said, and he could swear she had muttered 'you're gonna need it,' under her breath.

Now, Greg mournfully finished his hot dog. Lunch had been pathetic, but at least he had a big dinner to look forward to. An old friend, Dr. Gina Venora, had invited him to the Pathologists' banquet. Greg smiled. Not only was she providing him with a meal, she was also helping him to do something nice for Grissom.

After yesterday's conversation with Janice, he'd decided to talk to his boss. She was right after all; Grissom was a generous guy, and, until recently, a very tolerant one too.

Greg realized that what they needed was to talk things over.

Hence, Greg 's big plan: He was going to set a double date with Grissom.

* * *

Greg hung up. He'd been trying to find Grissom, but the old man wasn't in his suite or in any of the conference rooms. According to the schedules, Grissom had taken over the seminar that Dr. John Garrison should have conducted, but that had ended a couple of hours ago. 

After looking for him at the hotel library and the lab equipment exhibit, he went to the gym, as a last resort.

Greg was surprised by the sight of a sweaty and flushed Grissom coming down the hallway. He was wearing sweats that bore the hotel logo.

"Where were you?" asked Greg, and Grissom lifted his right arm to show him a racket. "Whoa," Greg frowned, "I didn't know you played tennis."

"I don't." He said ruefully, "I got pummeled down."

"Really? By whom?"

"Dr. Jay Andrews."

"The same Jay Andrews who beat you at the cockroach races last year? And you let him beat you at tennis too?" Greg shook his head "You should practice more, Grissom."

"I know." He glared.

"If you want, we could meet tomorrow for a lesson-"

"No, thanks." Grissom said abruptly.

"Why not?" asked Greg, "I'm really good at it. I could teach you a few tricks-"

"I don't think so."

"Fine, Grissom." He scowled, "Next year when he beats you again, you'll rue the day you turned down the chance to learn from me-"

Grissom handed the racket to one of the guys in charge and made a beeline for the shower. But when he noticed that Greg was still following him, he abandoned that idea and decided to go up to his room.

"Good night, Greg." He said as he walked to the elevator.

"What?" Greg frowned, "Grissom, it's only six o'clock! Wait!" He reached Grissom, "Listen, I'm taking you out to dinner, Ok? Go take a shower, and then we'll meet at the lobby-"

Grissom frowned.

"Dinner, Greg?" he asked cautiously. He couldn't imagine why Greg would want to take him to dinner. Unless...

Unless Janice told Greg about the conversation she and Grissom had had during breakfast... Grissom froze.

But Greg dispelled his suspicions.

"We've got a date." The young man said, full of enthusiasm, "We're taking two lovely doctors to the Pathologists' dinner. You'll be escorting Dr. Joan 'I'm-too-hot-for-Vancouver' Wilfred, and I'll be-" He stopped when he noticed Grissom's look of disbelief. "What?"

"I don't want a date, Greg-"

"Why not?" he smiled.

"Greg-" he sighed.

"Come on, boss!" he slapped Grissom's back, "It's a _date,_ not an engagement! And you have to eat dinner anyway; why not have it at a fashionable restaurant? It's completely free, by the way. That may not be a big deal for you but it is for me."

The elevator doors opened and Greg followed Grissom inside.

"Besides," he lowered his voice, "Dr. Wilfred's been eyeing you since she met you, you know." He smiled encouragingly, "Come on. You'll have _fun_."

"I don't need to go out, Greg." Grissom said dryly, "I'm going to order room service and watch a marathon of 'Brother Cadfael' on PBS. _That_'s fun." He punched the button for his floor, and winced, "Besides, my arm's killing me."

"Did you pull a muscle?" Greg asked solicitously, "I know a simple exercise that might help." Greg said, grasping Grissom's arm with both hands.

"Greg?" Grissom frowned, "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to fix your arm," he explained, "I'll just knead it and-"

Grissom brusquely pulled his arm away, as if Greg's fingers had burned him.

"No, thanks," he said quietly.

He stared ahead until the elevator doors opened. Then he got out without looking back.

Greg stood frozen in place, with an incredulous expression on his face.

TBC


	4. Chapter four

DECISIONS

I'm sorry it took me so long to update -the story got out of control for a while-but I promise the next chapters will come up faster.

Slash,Gil and Greg.

Set after 'Viva Las Vegas' and just before 'Down the Drain'.

Notes:

OMG, it's Horatio _Caine_, not Crane! Thanks for pointing it out; I stopped watching CSI Miami after a couple of episodes -I couldn't take the way the actors recited their lines, and I didn't much like HC. I don't know if he has changed at all, but one thing remains constant if the clips they show on CBS are any indication: He still puts his hands on his waist…like a human tinaja!

About some of the names I used in this story: Peter Duel was an actor who died in the 70s. He did a TV series, 'Alias Smith & Jones'. He was rather good. As for Walter Fox… what can I say? I used to love the X Files.

Spoiler: Turning the Screws (Grissom talks rather eloquently about roller coasters.)

* * *

Grissom took a deep breath. He was in his hotel room, sitting in the dark. 

Up until a half hour ago he had been meditating, successfully avoiding to acknowledge the passing of time. But now he was all too aware of it, practically counting the seconds as they turned into minutes. Now and then he glanced at the clock on his night table to verify if he had counted correctly.

"Six-forty five." He muttered, before looking.

_6:44:50.._

He was counting too fast.

He closed his eyes to try again.

_6:45:01…_

He sighed. The wake started in fifteen minutes and he still couldn't muster the energy to go.

'Maybe because I don't want to go.' He thought sarcastically. That was the truth; he did not want to be reminded of a time of his life he had fought hard to forget.

_6:45:55_

He did understand his friends' motives; they wanted to honor John's memory, after all. But Grissom felt he had already honored John's life and work by taking over his dead friend's conference, the highlight of this convention.

That's what he had come to Chicago for: To make sure that John's suicide didn't overshadow his legacy. Grissom had made that clear from the start, when people started asking questions about his old friend's death -mostly students who were concerned about grades and reputations tarnished by their teacher's suicide.

Grissom had reassured them and asked them to stay and listen to John's own words. Grissom had then presented his friend's material, letting it speak for itself. He wanted everybody to remember John as an Entomologist who had dedicated his life to educate people, and he felt he had accomplished that.

_6:46:18_

The public's reaction had been very positive. At the end of the conference, Grissom had been mobbed by students who were interested in Entomology, and by law enforcement officials who wanted to learn more about its application in Forensics. Grissom wished his friend had been there to enjoy this triumph. For the first time he realized how John's death would affect others. All that knowledge was lost forever.

_6:46:36_

Grissom rose impatiently. Waiting here doing nothing was worse; he'd rather leave early. He grabbed his keys and his jacket and opened the door, only to find Greg in the hallway, leaning against the opposite wall and looking as he had been waiting for Grissom all this time.

Greg seemed surprised to see him –no, Grissom told himself; Greg was not surprised, he was _taken aback_, as if he hadn't expected to see Grissom so soon. He had been mustering the courage to knock.

Why would he do that?

"Greg?" he asked looking around, "Are you ok?"

Greg recovered quickly.

"Grissom, you got a minute?" he asked evenly.

"I was just leaving-" Grissom said, closing the door behind him.

"It's ok." Greg said quietly, "I'll walk along with you."

Grissom hesitated but in the end he relented.

"Aren't you going to the banquet, Greg?" he asked as they walked to the elevator.

"It's early." Greg shrugged. "What about you? Do you have a _date_?"

Grissom ignored the sarcasm.

"The wake." He said simply.

"Ah, yeah." He nodded, "The wake. So, what are the big plans?"

"We'll play poker, we'll eat and drink." Grissom said, "We'll reenact The Big Chill, perhaps." He muttered.

"What's that?"

"It's a movie about old college pals -" he started, but he didn't continue and Greg didn't press him to.

They entered the elevator. There were some people inside, and that prevented Greg from saying whatever he was going to say, and Grissom was thankful for the respite, brief as it was. He didn't want to talk right now –or ever- but he had to face reality sooner or later.

He knew that by now Greg had at least two serious job offers – one from Jan, and one from Horatio Caine (who had actually called last night to inquire after the young man and seemed really interested).

It was only a matter of time before Greg told him he was leaving.

"I caught part of your conference today." Greg said. "I talked to a couple of Dr. Garrison's students; they said you did a good job presenting the Doctor's material."

Grissom smiled but didn't say anything.

People exited the elevator as it rose to the top floors. When they were finally left alone, Greg realized where they were headed.

"The Penthouse?" Greg asked, "You're having the wake at the _Penthouse_? That must have cost a lot of money!"

"Actually, Jan got it for free." Grissom said, "They're doing some renovations. The area is closed to the public, but it's the only space available in the hotel, so-"

As soon as the elevator doors opened, they noticed the extent of the renovations. The wallpaper had been removed and the plush carpet had been rolled away. There was also a strong smell of fresh paint.

They made their way to the door at the end of the hallway and Grissom tried the doorknob. It was locked.

"It's too early." Grissom muttered.

"Grissom," Greg said, and he paused until his boss turned. "I want to talk to you about what happened yesterday."

"Ok." Grissom said cautiously and –Greg suspected -cluelessly.

"I was angry." Greg admitted, "I was so angry I almost followed you to your room."

Grissom was puzzled. He didn't know what Greg was talking about.

"Greg-"

"But I didn't." Greg said unnecessarily, "I told myself that it was no big deal and that I had better things to do," he glanced at Grissom, "I had to take the doctors to their dinner, remember?" He looked down at the floor, "I tried to have a good time with them but all night I kept thinking, 'Who the hell does he think he is'?"

Grissom wasn't sure what Greg was talking about. He honestly didn't think that his refusal to go on a date - a date he hadn't asked for- should anger Greg like this.

"Greg, I don't-" he started. 'I don't go on blind dates' he wanted to say but didn't. He had always refused to justify himself to anybody. He was who he was, and he offered no apologies. Or explanations.

But Greg wasn't asking for one, either. He ignored Grissom's words.

"I hadn't planned on talking to you about this," he continued, "but when I woke up today and thought about it, I realized that behind my anger, there was disappointment too. And that's worse, you know? 'Cause anger flares up and fades away, but disappointment lingers on-"

By now Grissom was getting impatient –and mildly pissed off.

"Greg, what are you talking about?"

"What I'm saying is that I've always considered you a role model, Grissom." Greg said slowly, "You're my boss, but you're also my teacher and… my friend. Someone I expect better things from."

He paused. "I used to hear people talking about you or calling you names –names like Gruesome Grissom or Frozen Grissom – and I didn't care. I thought I knew you better than that. But yesterday I realized that I _don't_ know you. You might be gruesome and frozen, but there's more than that; you're a homophobe too."

Grissom frowned.

"Greg," he started, "I'm not-"

"Gruesome?" Greg finished, "Or Frozen?"

Grissom didn't answer. He avoided discussions that turned personal and this one seemed far too dangerous to be drawn into. Besides, there was Greg's demeanor to consider. If he had been visibly angry, Grissom would have known what to do and say; he was good at diffusing people's anger. But Greg was eerily calm.

"You should have seen the look on your face when I touched you, Grissom. You reacted as if you were disgusted by me."

Grissom didn't visibly react, but he was frantically trying to remember yesterday's events. Greg interrupted his musings.

"Do you think it's contagious, boss?" he asked unemotionally, "Do you think that if I touch you, you'll suddenly turn into a fag?"

Grissom blinked. The word had felt like a punch in the gut, but he didn't let on.

"Greg, this is-" he began and then he paused. He could have said plenty about all this, but not without revealing things about himself, and he couldn't do that. "This isn't the time." He said finally.

Greg looked at him.

"It's our last chance, boss." He said firmly. When Grissom didn't say anything, he added, "You could at least admit that things have changed." He paused again.

"I don't-"

"It all started after you saw me at the Disco." Greg interrupted, "You said you didn't mind, remember? But you do. I still don't know what the problem is, though. I mean, is it really because I was kissing a _guy_? Or is it because I was showing feelings and according to you, that renders me incapable of doing my job?"

He waited in vain for Grissom's answer, "If that's what you think then we're screwed, 'cause we can't all be like you. We can't all lead repressed lives." he said pointedly, "We can't just hold back our feelings and wait until we ride a roller coaster to get some _relief_." Greg was glad when he saw Grissom redden; his words were finally getting a reaction from him. '

"You're crossing a line, here -" He warned.

"Alone, of course." Greg added deliberately, "The ultimate in safe sex."

Grissom made a visible effort to get his anger under control. He wasn't completely successful.

"Listen," he said, "I'm still your boss," He whispered, "No matter how many job offers you ever get, you'll always need a reference from me-"

"So I'm supposed to shut up and let you treat me like an outcast?" Greg challenged.

"I don't treat you like an-"

"Yes you do." Greg interrupted. He took a deep breath; he had promised himself not to lose his cool. "It's disappointing, Grissom." He said, calmly now, "I thought you were open-minded. I thought you would accept me-"

Grissom felt his anger vanish as he realized that Greg's apparent composure was covering up a deep hurt. Grissom knew what Greg was going through; he understood completely -probably better than anyone else in the world- but he couldn't say so.

"Greg," he said slowly, "if you go through life expecting others to validate who you are, you'll always be up for disappointment."

"I'm not talking about others, Grissom; I'm talking about you." He looked at his boss in the eye, "I expected better things from _you_."

Grissom took a deep breath.

"Greg, it wasn't my intention to-"

Whatever he was going to say would have to wait because the elevator bell rang at that moment. Both turned to see the newcomer. It was Dr. Bernard.

He was wearing a red sweater that made him look like Santa Claus, and the armful of bags he was carrying helped enhance this perception.

"Heeeeey, Chip, Sanders." He greeted as he walked down the hallway. Now that he was closer, both Greg and Grissom noticed that the Santa Claus effect was marred by the "Joey's Liquor Store" logo on the paper bags. "You're early," Bernard said cheerfully. "Good."

If he thought it was odd to see those two standing on either side of the penthouse door, looking flushed and frustrated, he didn't let on. "I'm going to need your help in there, boys. I don't know how clean the place is."

Bernie had a set of keys in his right hand, but try as he might, he couldn't open the door and hold on to his bags at the same time. He looked expectantly at Greg and then at Grissom, but neither moved. "Ooookay," he said, "I guess no one will help unless I ask, sooo-"

"Sorry," both Gil and Greg mumbled, and took the bags out of Bernie's arms. They were heavy, and Grissom peered inside one.

"This is a lot of whiskey, Bernie."

"Yes, it is." Bernard said placidly, as he opened the door. "You didn't think tonight was just about poker, did you? It's about the booze too. By the end of the night I hope my brain will be nicely pickled." He noticed Grissom's expression, and scoffed, "Hey, don't give me that look. I'm entitled. It's a wake after all; tonight we'll be confronting our own mortality-"

"You'll be confronting it sooner if you drink all this."

"Ah, Gil." Bernard smiled pityingly as he turned on the lights, "So proper, all the time. Did you know-" he turned to Greg, "That our friend here was the youngest coroner every graduating-"

"He knows, Bernie." Grissom interrupted, "Who's bringing the food?"

"Pete will. Greasy ribs and fries, pizza- All the food that Garrison loved." He turned back to Greg. "So, Chip here was the youngest," he said as if they hadn't been interrupted, "But he had the oldest soul among us. Never had any fun-"

"That's what you think" Grissom muttered.

"Please." Bernard scoffed, "Ant farms? Book research? While we were out having fun, this guy had his nose in a book, reading on how to do things instead of doing them-"

Greg felt uncomfortable. He was angry at Grissom, but he didn't like this guy bashing his boss. Loyalty won out.

"Where do you want me to put this?" he asked.

"Put the bottles over there, young Sanders." He said, pointing at the far end of the room. "You too, Gil."

The room was pretty bare – carpets and furniture had been removed- but the renovations hadn't started yet, so at least there was no smell of paint. Greg looked around with curiosity and a little disappointment too. He would have loved to see the penthouse in all its glory, not like this.

The hotel management had provided them with a few chairs and a couple of tables but that was all…

Except for the elegant bar at the end of the room.

Grissom and Greg put the bottles among several items already there. The hotel management had tried to make up for the lack of facilities by providing them with glasses and ice.

"Aaah, look at this," Bernie said, appreciatively, " Ice, beer, mineral water-" he glanced at Greg, "Soft drinks for the underage-"

Greg smiled faintly.

"And," Bernard added, "A _coffee maker_, God bless them."

Bernard went back to the entrance and fiddled around with the light switch panel until the whole room was bathed in a soft light. Happy with this effect, Bernie started arranging the few pieces of furniture they had.

Greg immediately set to help, but Grissom got distracted by something he saw on the wall behind the bar. Without the lights it had looked like leftover wallpaper, but now he noticed that it was a collage. Someone had taped several pictures on the wall, and he recognized most of them. How could he not? He had collected them himself. He had put them in an album. A gift for John.

But the pictures that beckoned to him were the ones he had not seen before. They were two blown out pictures of John Garrison, showing him not as a fifty-eight year old man but as a college student. He looked handsome, arrogant, and full of life. Looking at him, nobody would have imagined the self-doubt, the turmoil behind the smile. Seeing him like this made his death tragic and incomprehensible. Painful.

Grissom looked away.

Only to meet Greg's stare.

Grissom looked around; Bernie wasn't there.

"Dr. Bernard went back to his room," Greg said. He glanced at the pictures on the wall, "You know…" Greg said softly, "Over the years, I've heard people say that Gil Grissom doesn't give a damn about people unless he's got to investigate their deaths."

He paused as if giving his boss a chance to defend himself. Grissom didn't, of course. "They've said that the most gruesome the case the better," Greg said then. "Others might turn their eyes away but not you."

He looked at Grissom in the eye, "Yet you see me kissing someone, and _that_ makes you turn away. There's a picture of a friend who committed suicide and you don't even want to look at it. It seems that you just can't tolerate other people's mistakes and weaknesses."

Grissom had been holding his breath without realizing; he exhaled softly.

"You don't know me, Greg." He said, turning away.

"I'm only following the evidence, boss."

* * *

TBC 

Ah, Greg. He'll soon regret saying all this.

Thank you for reviewing. I promise to update soon, and to give this story a happy ending!

On the next chapter: The wake brings some revelations…


	5. chapter five

DECISIONS

Beware, H. Caine fans: There's a little bashing ahead. I'm afraid Janice just doesn't like this guy.

This is the damn chapter that gave me so much trouble. I even had to part it in two.

* * *

"I'm only following the evidence, boss." 

Grissom felt a surge of anger at hearing his own words thrown back to him. He didn't say anything, though. After briefly glancing at Greg, he calmly picked up the paper bags with the 'Joe's Liquor Store' logo that Bernie had discarded. He was looking around for a trash can when Greg spoke again.

"Dr. Garrison was mentally ill."

Grissom winced. Reluctantly, he turned back.

"Who told you that?" he asked.

"There were rumors at the University."

Grissom hesitated. As far as he knew, his old friend had been careful about keeping his problems private, but his suicide must have botched all those efforts. People must be speculating as to why professor Garrison had killed himself.

Still, the term 'mentally ill' had connotations.

"He suffered from _depression_," Grissom said as calmly as he could. He was going to add something when the door opened. Bernie was back. Grissom lowered his voice, "He took medication for it. That's all."

"That's not what this guy said-"

"What guy?"

"A student I was talking to; he says someone posted Dr. Garrison's medical records on a UCLA library website. They were removed almost immediately, but some students did see them and the rumors flew." Greg paused. "They were saying he had Alzheimer's-"

"Alzheimer's a neurological disease, not a mental disease," Grissom retorted, but he said it automatically; he was truly stunned by Greg's revelation.

"Whatever it was, he shot himself the next day," Greg said.

Dr. Bernard had been glancing at Gil and his young colleague. He couldn't figure out those two; first they acted like they were about to whack each other, and now they were whispering to each other. Of course, he could speculate… but he wasn't going to. It was none of his business.

Besides, he had plenty to do. He had brought an old tape recorder and he needed to plug it somewhere.

"Young Sanders," he called out, "Can you help me with this?"

Greg hesitated. He was worried about Grissom; in his haste to stop his boss from walking away he had blurted out something that he should have kept under wraps. Now Grissom looked as if the thought of his friend being ill was worse than the fact that he was dead.

Grissom recovered quickly, though.

"Just do me a favor," He said hoarsely. "Don't tell this to anybody."

"I won't," Greg said, "I'm sorry -"

"It's ok." He interrupted, altough he was obviously _not_ ok, "Just keep it to yourself." He warned.

While Grissom took care of the paper bags, Greg helped Dr. Bernard. First he found an outlet and then he set up the 'entertainment center', as Bernard called it. The old man had even brought a shoe box filled with cassette tapes that he'd labeled by hand.

"You still use those, sir?" Greg asked doubtfully.

"What do you mean, 'still'?" he asked indignantly, "These have a great sound! Hey, Chip," he called out, "Remember my LP collection? I transferred it to tapes!"

Grissom came to look.

"Ever heard of CDs, Bernie?" he scoffed.

"I'm surrounded by technology nuts." Bernie muttered. "Listen you two. Not every rock group from the sixties has its own CD box set, ok? Not all groups are remembered equally. I mean," he said, lifting a tape, "Who remembers The Youngbloods now?"

"The who?" Greg asked.

"Yeah, I've got The Who too." Bernie said, fishing another tape from the lot, "There you are." He said, presenting it to Greg, "You can keep it. I made copies."

"That's illegal, Bernie." noted Grissom, who was peering at each tape.

"Oh, relax. I'm a lawyer, remember? Heeey," he protested when he saw Grissom pocketing several tapes, "You've got to wait 'til the party's over!"

"I'm taking these as evidence." Grissom said, smiling faintly.

"You're a greedy bastard, Gil." Bernard retorted, but he was smiling too. He took Grissom's arm and drew him aside, "You know," He said, "I wanted to talk to you earlier. I'm glad you're here, my brother."

"Thanks."

"I'm serious. You've been sorely missed. You used to be a part of the gang, remember?"

Grissom nodded.

"You know…" Bernie said, lowering his voice so Greg didn't hear, "I always regretted that you and John didn't get along after you two… you know." He paused, but Grissom only nodded. None of his friends had ever openly acknowledged his relationship with John, and not just out of discretion. The guys just tried to pretend that it didn't exist.

Times had changed.

"I'm glad to be back, Bernie," Grissom said gently. He was. He had missed his friends. He used to attend conventions now and then and greet them fleetingly, but he never joined them for dinner or poker.

Someone knocked on the door and Greg opened up. The guys were coming. Frank Jones and Peter Duel brought the food, and Walter Fox brought more booze. Then Janice Mahoney arrived, looking really nice in a blue dress that actually fit.

"Ooooh, devil in a blue dress!" Bernard said, kissing her cheek. "Pity I'm married."

"_She's got it_!" sang Fox, "_Yeah, baby, she's got it_!"

"Ooooh, woman!" Jones sighed loudly. "I've just had a flashback of you wearing white boots… Remember those? Mid-calf, shiny-"

"Jeeze, Frankie," Janice scoffed, "I didn't know you were such a shoe fetishist!"

"You should have seen her," Jones said, nudging Greg, "When we were in High School, she wore boots and a micro mini, and her hair all piled up -"

"I like her like this." Greg said gallantly and Janice winked at him.

"Hey, look at that! There's Johnnie!" Duel said suddenly, pointing at the pictures on the wall. He went to get a closer look, "I'd forgotten all about these! Look." He said, pointing at some group shots. "Remember that camping trip?"

"Oh, man!" Fox squinted, "Just look at this one. That was taken the day we graduated! What a bunch of fear-stricken bastards!"

They started talking all at once, pointing at one another in the pictures. They laughed as they saw their younger selves wearing garish clothes, long hair, and bushy sideburns.

Janice noticed that Grissom wasn't with his friends; he had chosen to stay behind and fiddle with the tape recorder.

She approached him.

"Hi, Gil." She said, and then she deliberately asked, "Do you like what I did on that wall?"

"Didn't you have any recent pictures?" he asked angrily, "You're implying that he was this young when he died. You're making it more tragic than it was."

"Well, I believe that a part of him died in College, Gil." She said calmly, "Just like a part of you did." She walked away without waiting to see his reaction. She went to Greg, who was listening to the guys talk about the good old times, but at a respectful distance.

"Are you staying with us?" she asked, taking his arm.

"He's going to the banquet," Grissom said, from the other side of the room.

"Actually, I'd like to stay a while," Greg said, out of spite. "But I don't know how to play poker, so I'll just watch."

Jan patted his arm.

"After tonight you'll become an expert. Guys?" she called out to her friends, "How about playing a hand to warm up?"

"Sure." Bernie said, "Did you bring the cards, Gil?"

"Sure," he said, taking a couple of packs from his pocket.

"You didn't tamper with them, did you?" Jones asked good-naturedly.

"Come on, Frankie," Fox said loudly, "you know that Gil would never do that. He's too _straight _to do anything crooked."

He said this with a tone that implied just the opposite, and this wasn't lost on Greg. He glanced at Grissom, but his boss' expression was unreadable as he broke the seal of a pack.

* * *

"I'm raising." Said Fox.

"I'm calling." Answered Janice.

Greg yawned. He'd been listening to phrases like these for an hour and now he wished he hadn't stayed.

Not that it was _all _bad. The game was interesting at times, the food was great, and even the music was ok too –although he didn't understand why the guys got sentimental over some of the songs. Dr. Bernard would put on a cassette, announce the artist and add, "Now that's music," while the rest of them nodded eagerly, even joining in the choruses, as they did with 'A Whiter Shade of Pale'.

And whenever someone mentioned a song that wasn't in any of the tapes, they gamely sang it a cappela ; (Greg would never forget hearing –and seeing- Grissom sing "I want you" with Dr. Bernard and Dr. Jones, complete with guitar noises, '_ba-ba-ba-ba'_.)

The downside to all this was hearing them talk about old times Greg knew nothing about, and hearing jokes he didn't get most of the time.

There was something else: They had barely mentioned the dead guy except in connection to some joke or a funny story he had told. Greg wondered if it was because coroners mourned personal losses differently.

Whatever the reason, he suspected that things were going to change soon. They were drinking steadily now and Greg knew that once they got drunk, they'd start spilling their guts – with the probable exception of Janice, who had insisted on nursing a single whiskey on the rocks, and Grissom, who had stuck to mineral water.

"I'm not going" Jones groaned, putting his cards down. "Drinks, anyone?" he asked, without waiting for an answer.

"I fold." Duel said mournfully.

"I'm going all in…" said Foxy with relish.

"Well, well," Duel said appraisingly, "Looks like Foxy's got the big bucks now." He looked around, "He's come a long way, right guys? Remember the cheap clothes, the borrowed shoes? Oh, and what about that cheap cologne he used to wear? Whenever he entered a room, people started screaming, 'gas leak, gas leak'"

Fox reddened.

"That only happened when you farted!" he countered. "Besides," he shrugged, "I only used that cologne because it masked the smells of the morgue-"

"Foxy and his delicate senses," scoffed Bernard. He looked up, "Heeey, that sounds like the title of a fairy tale!"

"Excuse me, _I_ wasn't the fairy." Fox snickered, but none of his friends smiled. That seemed to anger him. "But yeah, now that you mention it, _I_'_ve_ got the big bucks now. I'm doing really great; insurance is a gold mine. And it's very educational, too. You wouldn't believe the information I've acquired over the years. Right, Pete? Your malpractice insurance premiums rose this past year-"

"Yeah? So?" Duel challenged.

"They're huge," Fox said to the others, "Petey here screwed up a case and got sued."

"Foxy-" Pete said, a warning in his tone. He looked around and noticed that his friends were looking at him. "Look," he said tiredly, "Last year I was sued by a guy who spent ten years in prison; several witnesses testified against him at his trial, but now that his lawyer found some exculpatory evidence he says it was _my_ DNA testimony that dunked him. Can you believe it?"

He looked around, "Like juries really listen to us? Like juries aren't swayed one way or the other by teary witnesses and lawyers rather than by our technical stuff?" he shrugged, "So yeah, I had to pay. Big fucking deal. That's what insurance is for."

"That information's supposed to be confidential, Foxy." frowned Bernie.

"We're like brothers, Bernie," Foxy said sarcastically. "Brothers tell each other things."

Bernard wasn't convinced, but he was distracted by a new round of drinks and a platter of sandwiches that Jones brought. The talk turned to the pains and gains of working in law enforcement.

"Being a coroner isn't all that glamorous," Bernie said at one point, "You spend the day cutting up people and measuring and weighing their guts, and dealing with those daaamned criminalists," he glared at Grissom, who smiled faintly. "It's hell, but hey, you're ok with it. It's your job and they pay you well to do it. But if at the end of the day you go home and your wife serves you _liver_ for dinner, then well, you gotta snap."

"No wonder there have been so many Mrs. Carl Bernards." Janice muttered.

"I have quirks, I admit it." Bernie shrugged. "It's hard to be agreeable and eat your dinner and pretend you're really listening to your wife's babbling when you've just cut up a guy who was poisoned by his wife." Bernie glanced at Greg, "I always tell young people to please think it over before joining us. You're still young, Sanders. You could still find a career outside crime investigation."

"Like _Insurance_," muttered Duel.

"You could be a bartender," Fox muttered, lifting his glass. "You'd never be unemployed."

"He should at least try not to fall in the clutches of _Frankencaine_." Jan muttered.

"Frankencaine?" Greg repeated, smiling at the word play.

"You're talking about Horatio Caine, aren't you?" Fox smiled, "In Insurance circles he's known as Spinal Caine." When he noticed Greg's blank expression, he explained, "There's a movie called Spinal Tap –very funny by the way- about a rock group that's lost several drummers in bizarre accidents-"

"I remember!" laughed Jones, "One of the drummers dies after choking on someone else's vomit!"

"Oh, come on guys, I'm eating!" groaned Janice, but she was laughing too.

"Well," smiled Fox, "The story goes that something similar happens in Miami; every two years or so a member of Caine's team dies or simply disappears."

"Or maybe he dismembers them -" Janice added mysteriously.

They laughed. After this, they started telling stories about their jobs. Some were funny, and some were not.

"I've just remembered a story that Johnnie told me once," Bernard said, "A rookie coroner performed several autopsies in a row during a busy weekend; nobody noticed anything was amiss until a few months later, when a judge ordered an exhumation."

"What happened?"

"When they opened the body they found a big, fat, cancerous womb inside, absolutely consistent with cause of death, except-" He paused, and then he delivered the punch line, "It was found in a _male _body!"

"Hell, that's awful." Snorted Janice.

"All the autopsies performed that weekend were compromised." Added Bernard, "Needless to say, the coroner was fired." He said, and then he announced, "I'll rise."

"I'm not going," Grissom said suddenly, putting his cards down.

"You're not doing much tonight, Chip, what's it with you?"

"I've lost my touch." He shrugged.

He had lost his touch, but he was also too distracted to care about the game.

He had tried to concentrate, and he had tried to enjoy his friends' company; but there was no forgetting the real reason they were all here.

Grissom went to the bar to get some food. He put together a sandwich and munched on it while the others played. He watched for a while until he became restless and began to explore the room, even though there was not much to see.

There were two windows in the living room but they were were boarded up, and the door that led to the balcony seemed to be stuck. Grissom stubbornly fought with it until he opened it, but his smoking friends immediately chided him for letting fresh air in.

He left it half open, just to spite them, and went back to the bar… but he wasn't hungry and he didn't want to drink.

He was merely putting off the inevitable.

He wanted to look at the pictures; he had felt them beckoning at him from the other side of the room and now he resigned himself to his fate. Reluctantly –and vaguely aware of Greg's stare following his movements- he approached the wall.

He studied John's portraits and the pictures below. Most of the photos offered a nostalgic look into their lives as College students, but Janice had shrewdly inserted some pictures that told a separate story; John and Gil's, from the start: The budding friendship, the crush, the relationship itself…

Grissom could barely recognize himself in those pictures – Had he really looked like this, had he been this _happy_? He scoffed. 'If you had known how things were going to end,' he thought, 'you wouldn't have smiled so widely, you poor idiot.'

He shook his head, almost angrily; he had been so naïve, so gullible, so damned _needy_-

But when he looked at a picture that Janice had pinned just below John's portrait, he was suddenly and painfully reminded of how he had felt at the time. Yes, he'd been happy. He'd been so optimistic, so blindly hopeful-

But John hadn't shared that optimism.

It wasn't John's fault. He'd had troubles of his own, starting with a lifelong fear of mental illness. That fear tainted his life, even forcing him to leave his job as a coroner; he couldn't bear the idea of working twelve or eighteen-hour shifts with the same people. He needed to have control over every single hour of the day; he needed schedules and predictability, and that's why he'd thrived as a teacher.

Grissom had rarely seen him in the following years, but John would surprise him now and then by calling him or sending him an e-mail. Grissom rarely answered those. He had moved on a long time ago.

…But now he wondered if John had perhaps felt lonely.

Grissom didn't want to think about it anymore. He returned to the table.

"Count me in." he said.

"So," Duel said suddenly, "Any theories as to why Johnnie shot himself?"

Nobody acknowledged the question at first. Then Jones spoke.

"At first I thought of AIDS." He said, and looked at the others, "Except that it couldn't be, right? I mean, that guy lived a truly _closeted_ life." He smiled at the word he'd used, "Even at these conventions he organized, he didn't mingle. While we were out _playing_, Johnnie closed the door and read. Or slept, or whatever he did."

"I bet that's exactly what you did last night," scoffed Janice.

"Aw, gimme a break!" Frankie protested, "I'm almost sixty and I have two ex-wives to feed; I don't have any dough to spare. But I enjoyed some wild times, while Johnnie never did." He blinked, "Hey, that's not a bad reason to put a bullet through your brain, don't you think? Maybe he woke up one day and realized he'd wasted his life all along!"

He looked around and met with glares of disapproval, "Ok, ok," he said apologetically, "that was tasteless; sorry. What do you think, Gil? You knew him better than any of us."

They all looked at Grissom, who didn't relish the attention. Before he could say anything, Bernard intervened.

"Nobody knows why he did it, guys, Ok? Not even his sister Lonnie-"

"You talked to her?" Asked Grissom, suddenly interested. "How is she?"

"Sad. Relieved. You can imagine."

Grissom's sudden interest wasn't lost on Greg, who smiled to himself. He thought he understood now: Grissom and the dead guy's sister had an affair that went sour, and that had ended the guys' friendship-

"You know," Jones said thoughtfully, "If Johnnie had done this on the day of his retirement, I would have understood; he lived for his job at the U."

Out of the corner of his eye, Grissom noticed that Greg was glancing at him. They both knew that John's job would have been in jeopardy due to the rumors. At best he would have had to reveal his real medical condition and continue working; at worst, the students would have pressured the authorities to get a new teacher.

"Listen," Bernie was saying, "We're friends and whatever I say will stay here, right?" he looked solemnly at them, "Johnnie was battling depression-"

"Really?" asked Duel, "I can't believe he was depressed-"

"He wasn't a happy-go-lucky guy, Pete," muttered Jones.

"I was being sarcastic," Duel replied.

"You know," Grissom said, looking at the cards in his hands, "John would have hated the idea of being discussed like this by his so-called friends."

"_We _were his friends," Duel retorted, "Unlike you, who could never forgive him for -"

"Come on, Pete," Janice said. "That's not fair."

"But it's true-"

"Guys," Bernie said loudly, "We didn't come here to argue, ok? We came to…"

"To get plastered!" Foxy said suddenly. He stumbled out of his seat and went to the bar. "I'll be your bartender, lady and gentlemen. Name your poison! Hey, Sanders? Take orders for me, will ya?"

Greg good-naturedly did so, even though there were few choices at the Bar: Tequila, whiskey, coffee, and a couple of bottles of beer.

"You know," Jones said after a moment, "Johnnie was our friend, but I find it hard to feel sad for him. I mean, he did what he thought was best for him. Some view suicide as an act of cowardice, but what if there was no other way? Do you know what Jack London's wife said? "_Jack went like a conqueror; he went with the illuminated smile of one who has chosen well_."

He looked around and noticed that Grissom was looking at him with sudden interest, "What," Jones smiled, "Do you think you're the only one who has quotes to spare?"

"I guess not." Grissom said quietly. "It's a good quote, by the way."

"I didn't find it by myself." Frankie admitted sheepishly, "Johnnie e-mailed it to me… just before shooting himself, I guess."

They all looked at each other.

"He e-mailed me a quote too." Bernard admitted, "'_Sleep is good, death is better, but of course the best thing would be never to have been born at all'."_

"Oh, God," muttered Janice, "Mine said, '_The fever called living is conquered at last_.'"

When Greg heard this, he decided it was time to leave this hell of a party and go down to the banquet. He might still get some dessert at least. He would help Fox with the drinks, and that was it.

"What do you think of our little reunion?" Fox asked, as if he'd been reading his thoughts.

"It's- interesting." Greg said noncommittally. "Did you get an e-mail from your friend, too?"

Fox paused for a moment, but he didn't answer. He lifted his glass.

"Cheers." He said loud enough for the rest of his friends to hear, "For our dead friend." He said, taking a big gulp, "And for the next friend who decides to end it all." He drained his glass.

"Hey, Foxy," Bernie called out, "Take it easy."

"Don't mind me." Fox replied hoarsely and started fixing himself another drink. "Yep." He muttered, "There'll always be someone burning out, or melting down -" He looked at Greg, "Life in forensics is a pain in the ass, kid. But this," he lifted the bottle of whiskey, "This is one hell of a pain reliever."

Greg smiled politely.

"Yep." Fox repeated, "A pain in the ass. Not that I know about it first-hand," he added, loudly this time, "After all, I haven't worked in Forensics for a long time."

Greg nodded; Fox had already told him that.

"I shouldn't complain, you know?" Fox continued, "Life in Insurance is _so_ much more exciting. And safe. I've seen what working as a coroner does to one's coronaries." He laughed at the wordplay.

Nobody seemed to appreciate his humor, and Greg started to feel sorry for this guy.

"So." Greg said tentatively, "Why didn't you stay in Forensics?"

Greg was looking at Fox, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed that everybody at the table had paused and seemed to be waiting for their friend's answer.

Fox put his glass down.

"Well. You know how it is." He said after a moment, "Bad things happen when your friends betray you."

"There he goes." Janice said.

"You see," Fox added, "I had a bad night back at the start of my career, back when John and I worked at the same morgue. I made a mistake –because as a human being I'm entitled to make a mistake, right?" he paused, but he didn't wait for Greg's comment. "I mean, a friend would have understood. A friend would have covered up."

He glanced at his friends, "I was the rookie who put the womb in that guy's body." He confessed. "Shit, I had performed so many autopsies that day-"

He closed his eyes for a moment, "I was so fucking tired and my damn assistant had bailed out on me. And just when I thought I was finished at last, I saw a pile of leftovers I hadn't noticed before. I had to put them somewhere, right? I couldn't just throw them away, right? I mean, I could have thrown them away, but I didn't. I put them inside that last body-"

"Foxy, you were drinking on the job." Bernie said patiently, "You'd botched several autopsies -" he looked at his friends, "John shouldn't have offered him that post. It was supposed to be Gil's-"

"It was _one_ mistake-" Fox insisted, ignoring the interruption, "Johnnie could have covered up for me but he didn't. He just ratted me out!" he gulped down his drink, "They made inquiries, they poked into my private life, and I lost my job. And do you know what the worst part is?"

He looked around, "Johnnie didn't even hold on to his own job. After a year, he decided to focus on _Entomology_." He said it as if he despised the word, "And then, a few years later, I was stabbed in the back by another Entomologist." He looked at Grissom, "One reference from you and I could have gone back to work, Gil. One letter, that's all I needed-"

Grissom held his gaze. He wasn't going to apologize or to justify a decision he'd made ten years ago. He'd tried to give Foxy a chance, but the man was still drinking. He couldn't back him up.

"Such a great bunch of friends." Fox muttered, and then he turned his back on them. There were better things to look at, anyway. Like all those lovely bottles. He poured whiskey in a couple of glasses and offered one to Greg.

"Here." He said, "Take this."

"Uh, thanks." Greg said, just to be polite.

"Go on," Foxy coaxed, "Drink it."

Greg hesitated. He was no stranger to whiskey, but there was something shifty about this guy.

"Go on," Fox smiled unsteadily, "you've got to try it once-"

"You're wasting your time, Foxy." Grissom said, suddenly appearing by their side, "There's nothing this guy hasn't already tried at least _twice_ in his life." he said, casually taking the glass out of Greg's hand.

Foxy smiled.

"Well, well." He said loudly, "Taking care of your _boy toy_, Gil?"

TBC

Notes:

'She's got it…' it's a line from the song Venus by Shocking Blue

"I want You" is a song from the Beatles' Abbey Road album.

All quotes in italics were taken from The Penguin Thematic Dictionary of Quotations.


	6. chapter six

DECISIONS

Spoilers: The accused is entitled (Who told Gerard that Grissom was going deaf? Here's the answer.)

Notes: In the previous chapter I forgot to mention that the story about the female organ found in a male's corpse was based on a case featured in 'Proclaimed in Blood' by Hugh Miller

Thanks a lot for your kind reviews! It really makes me happy to know you like the story!

* * *

"Well, well." He said loudly, "Taking care of your _boy toy_, Gil?"

Greg and the guys at the table winced. Grissom calmly put the glass down and looked at Fox. His eyes were cold.

"That's enough, Foxy-" he warned quietly.

"What, we can't talk about _that_ either? But of course!" he said sarcastically, "The great Gil Grissom keeps his life to himself and we have to respect that!" he paused, "But no secret lasts forever, Gil," he said, smiling faintly. He looked at the others, "This guy wouldn't help me get a job because I screwed up _one_ case at the start of my career. Yet _he_ put in danger each of the cases he investigated _for a whole year_."

Grissom was aware that Greg's and everybody else's eyes were on him now, but he didn't care. Right now he was looking at Foxy as if for the first time in a long time. Fox continued his tirade.

"This guy was losing his hearing," he said, "But he kept on working. Can you imagine how many cases he botched?" he paused and looked around in triumph.

His friends weren't impressed.

"Oh, for God's sake-" muttered Janice, "I don't believe that."

"You should stop drinking, Foxy-" Jones said, shaking his head. "You've started to hallucinate-"

"It's true!" Fox insisted angrily, "Just ask him!"

"How could you have known, anyway?" scoffed Bernie, but it was Grissom who answered.

"He has access to our medical records-" he said calmly. He heard Greg's sharp intake of breath; Grissom turned and gave him a warning look that meant 'don't say anything.'

Meanwhile, Fox only snorted.

"It took you _this_ long to figure it out, Gil? You're not such a hot shot investigator, are you?" he smirked, "Payback is sweet, Gil. When I saw your name on those medical records…" he closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the memory. "At first I didn't know what to do, but when the Tom Havilland case came up-"

"The Havilland case?" frowned Pete, "That's the one that Phillip Gerard was involved in, right? What the fuck is this all about, Gil?"

Grissom never thought he'd have to talk about this matter but he couldn't see a way out.

"I was going deaf," he admitted quietly, "Foxy told the defense team about it."

"You _were _going deaf?" Janice was stunned, "And you never said anything? How could you-"

"Wait a minute!" Bernie interrupted, "Are you saying that Foxy somehow got a hold of your records and-" he was skeptical, "Come on, he wouldn't do that-"

"Why not?" Asked Foxy angrily, "You don't think I'm smart enough to?"

"You _did_ ?"

"Yeah." Foxy smiled widely, "I knew Gerard wouldn't be too squeamish about taking the information. He was up to his neck in debts and needed to win that case; he was even talking about getting a book deal-"

"But he didn't make the information public like you wanted." Grissom said evenly.

"He had a sudden conscience attack." Fox scoffed

"You used Gil's medical records-" Bernie asked angrily, "Foxy! The law-"

"Save it, Bernie." He dismissed, "What are you going to do, sue me?"

That effectively silenced everybody and Foxy turned his back on them. He was reaching for the bottle of whiskey when, to his and everybody else's surprise, Grissom grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to the balcony.

If Janice had done this they would have been less shocked.

"What the!" protested Fox, "Gil! Get your hands off me!"

"What are you doing?" Janice called out in alarm as Grissom took Foxy with him to the balcony and slammed the door shut behind them.

"Oh, for God's sake-" Jones muttered in exasperation, "Now what, a fistfight?" he looked around, "What do we do?"

"Let them." Pete said dismissively, "Gil's entitled to beat this guy."

"I wonder if Gil even _knows_ how to throw a punch-" mused Bernie and they burst into laughs.

"If he knows," laughed Pete, "It's because he _read_ about it somewhere."

"This isn't funny!" Janice rose from her seat and joined Greg as the young man grabbed the doorknob. It didn't bulge. Grissom had slammed the door too hard.

"Aaah, let him, kid." Bernie scoffed, "It's about time someone put Foxy in his place. Damned idiot."

But Greg didn't think this would be a fistfight like any other, and he took Janice aside. Grissom had warned him not to say anything, but he was worried.

"That guy put Dr. Garrison's records on the web-"

* * *

Grissom had released Fox as soon as they were alone in the balcony.

"What the fuck's this?" Fox protested angrily

"You took his records," Grissom said quietly, "And you posted them on the web."

"Fuck you," Fox muttered, reaching around Grissom for the doorknob and getting a violent shove in return. Fox fell on his ass and gaped. Grissom stood his ground.

"You're not going inside until you and me talk." he said calmly.

Fox cautiously get up. He didn't like this. Grissom wasn't the kind of man who turned to violence –except that he just had. Fox looked around. They were _alone_ in the balcony, at the top of the hotel… And Gil's eyes were cold and hard.

No. He did not like this at all. Still, he tried to keep a brave front.

"What the hell you do you want?"

"An answer," Grissom said simply, "Did you forge his records?"

Fox frowned.

"What?" he asked.

"John's records," Grissom said, starting to lose his patience, "I know you post them on a website, Foxy; just answer the fucking question-"

Fox opened his mouth to answer but he paused when he heard his friends begin to pound on the door. He nervously tried to assess his chances; frankly, he didn't now if confessing to Grissom alone was better than confessing to all of them together.

Grissom heard the pounding, but he didn't turn.

"Look, Gil-" Fox said trying to placate him, "All I wanted was to-"

"Foxy, I don't need to know why you did it." He interrupted, "I just want to know if you forged his records-"

There was a crash behind them and Grissom glanced back; Bernie and Greg had used a metal bar to break the lock and open the door. His friends were pushing each other in their hurry to be out in the balcony.

"Gil?" Bernie called out. He was visibly relieved when he saw that Foxy was still there; for a moment he had expected the worst crime scene ever: a body hurled over the balcony and broken in a thousand pieces on the distant ground…"Is it true, Chip? Did he put John's records on the web?"

They were all staring at Fox now.

Greg mused on how trapped the man looked. Now that he finally had his friends' attention, he didn't relish it.

Fox walked backwards until he felt the rail on his back. He jumped away from it . Reluctantly, he faced his friends.

"Look, all I wanted-" he gulped, "All I wanted was to piss him up." He admitted, "I even put the records on a website that's wasn't widely used-"

"Did you forge the records?" insisted Grissom, "the students said he had Alzheimer's-"

"No!" he frowned, "It didn't say anything like that! I swear-"

"What did the records say?" asked Bernie, approaching Fox.

"It said something about his depression," Fox said, moving away, "It didn't say anything about Alz-"

"Gil," Jones said, "You don't think Johnnie killed himself just because of a rumor, do you? I mean, come on!"

"He was a private man;" Grissom said, without turning, "All he had was his reputation. Once it was put into question, he knew that no explanation would ever be enough."

"Come on," scoffed Fox. "All he had to do was tell them about the depre-"

"You stupid prick!" Bernie roared, grabbing Fox by the front of his shirt, "Do you realize what you did?" he pushed Fox against the rail, and then grabbed one of the man's legs so he lost his balance.

Foxy screamed as he was tilted over the rail, completely at Bernie's mercy. For a couple of seconds Foxy really believed that Bernie would simply let him fall, but Grissom intervened.

"Bernie, that's enough!" he said, pulling Fox back and pushing him out of Bernard's reach. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I just wanted to scare him up a bit," Bernie shrugged, wiping his hands on his red sweater, "Since _talking _wasn't getting _you_ anywhere. And what's wrong with you? You're defending him now?" he didn't wait for an answer; he turned to Fox, "Now, Foxy, answer the frigging question: What did the records say!"

Fox shrugged.

"Foxy-" Bernie warned.

"Ok, ok;" Frankie lifted a hand, as if to stop Bernie from coming closer, "He was… he was having trouble with some side effects." He frowned, trying to remember, "That medication… I don't remember the name, but he was- I don't remember the exact term. It was something about the dosage- it was accumulating in his system and causing – I don't know-" he babbled.

"You _don't know_?" asked Janice incredulously.

"You stupid asshole," muttered Pete, "You cause this guy's death and you don't know?"

"No." Fox shook his head, "No, no, you can't put the blame on me! I just wanted him to sweat a little while he tried to clear the matter-" he looked around. "It was nothing!"

"It was _everything_," Grissom argued, "You put his job in danger, Foxy; that's all he had; his _life_ was invested in it-"

"But he wouldn't have lost his job just because he was sick!" Fox protested, "He only had to explain!"

"John kept his illness a secret for years." Grissom retorted, "He didn't want to explain. And the students who read the records misunderstood what they read and started a rumor about Alzheimer's. Even if John had managed to persuade the authorities, the students might not have been convinced so easily."

"But what kind of guy kills himself just because he doesn't want to explain?"

"There's a stigma about chronic illnesses, Foxy," Janice said quietly.

"Or maybe he heard the rumors," Jones said, "Maybe he thought he had started to show some symptoms and hadn't realized-"

"Look," Fox said, "I just wanted him to know what it's like to have to explain things and have other people judge your every action! I wanted him to defend himself, over and over like I had to do-"

"Oh, Foxy, how could you?" sighed Janice, "After all the things that Johnnie did for you-"

"Did _for_ me?" he said incredulously, "You're talking about that job he gave me?" he scoffed, "He gave it to me just 'cause Gil here didn't want it and I was the only one without a job."

He glanced at Grissom, "And _you _didn't want the job because it didn't include fucking John anymore." He paused and smiled faintly when he noticed the anger that briefly flashed in Grissom's eyes, "You hate talking about this, don't you, Gil? Hate having your life turned inside out." He snorted. "Now you know how it feels."

"This isn't about me." Grissom replied, "This is about John and what you did to-"

"You know what?" Fox interrupted, "This sudden concern of yours makes me sick, Gil. You didn't give a damn about Johnnie. You ignored him all these years." he looked closely at Grissom. "That must be bothering you, right? We all know how you like to do the right thing."

The silence that followed was broken by Janice.

"Foxy, you did something terrible. Don't you realize that?"

"Look," he said angrily, "I did something wrong but ultimately, it was _his_ decision! If he didn't have the guts to face a little problem like this, then he just didn't appreciate life. He just… he would have done it sooner or later!"

"But not yet." Grissom said quietly. He looked at Fox, "He worked hard for this convention; he wanted it to be the best ever. Did you attend the conference that he prepared, Foxy? No, you didn't," he said without giving Fox a chance to answer, "You don't care for Entomology. But I do_. I_ did the presentation and I _know_ that this was the best work he ever did. He _wanted_ to be here, Foxy."

Grissom took a deep breath, "Maybe you're right; maybe he would have done it sooner or later," he paused, "But he would have liked to say goodbye properly."

Fox held his gaze.

"And now," Grissom added, "_Duncan is in his grave. Treason has done his worst. Not steel, nor poison, malice domestic… nothing can touch him further."_

Foxy faltered for the first time.

"That's what he wrote in his last e-mail." He whispered.

Grissom nodded calmly.

"Macbeth." He said softly. "He loved Shakespeare."

"He _knew_ it was me, didn't he?" Fox whispered and looked away. "He fucking knew." He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. Then he blinked and looked around. He tentatively made for the door and when nobody stopped him, he left.

"We're letting let him go, just like that?" Pete asked angrily. He glanced at Grissom, "Gil?"

"What do you want to do Pete, kill him?" He asked unemotionally.

"Damn." Pete muttered, backing down a little. "What do we do then? Bernie?"

"I'll take the matter to the insurance company he works for." Bernard said tentatively. He seemed distracted by something. "Wait here all of you, I'll go inside just for a minute."

In Bernie's absence, the rest of the guys started discussing what to do about Fox. Grissom didn't pay attention; his mind was filled with the memories of his dead friend.

Foxy was right; John would have done this, and Grissom knew it better than anyone. He'd always known that Johnnie's job was his lifeline. Without it, he was lost…. With his illness out of control, there would be no job. And without it, there was nothing to live for. John couldn't imagine being at the mercy of others –doctors, caregivers, family.

The mere thought of being looked at with compassion (or shame and derision) horrified him-

Grissom's musings were interrupted by the certainty that someone was staring at him. When he looked up he realized that Greg was looking at him from the door.

He had stayed throughout this little scene, listening to everything-

Before Grissom could think of the repercussions, someone poked at his arm.

"Hey, Chip?" It was Bernie, "You ok?"

"Yeah." He said hoarsely.

"Foxy'll pay for this, Gil." Bernie added. "What he did was illegal and I can prove it."

Grissom didn't say anything and Bernie didn't expect him to, but his words somehow placated the others.

"That's great," Pete said.

"You'll see, Gil." Jones said, patting Grissom's shoulder, "He won't get away with it."

"Listen guys," Bernie said solemnly, and paused for a moment. "Lonnie and I -hum- we are the executors of Johnnie's will and- hum." Bernie didn't usually have any trouble saying anything, so this hesitancy made everybody turn their full attention on him, "Johnnie left almost everything to charity," Bernie said at last. "But he, hum, made some provisions and- hum. He included us."

"Oh, shit." Pete muttered, feeling uncomfortable.

"He's left money for us to go on a week-long fishing trip, and the only condition is that Gil here decide _where _and _when_. He can't decide _who_, unfortunately for him" he said, trying to joke, "Johnnie decided that it was us." He paused, "He also left his photo albums and his bug collections to you, Gil; they are huge, by the way. And-" he looked down. He had a small metal container in his hands, "He said he wanted you to take care of this."

Grissom stared at the container but made no move to take it.

"Heeey-" Bernard said, patting his friend's arm. "What's the matter?" he asked, trying to use a little coroner's humor, "You've never seen a dead body before?"

Aware that everybody was looking at him, Grissom mutely accepted the container.

Bernie looked around.

"I think we ought to call it a night, boys and girl."

"I'm all for that." Jones said. "Hey, why don't we have breakfast tomorrow?"

"Good idea," Pete nodded, "My plane doesn't leave 'til ten-" He looked around, "Ok, let's meet at seven." He awkwardly patted Grissom's shoulder and followed Bernie and Jones.

Grissom stood in the middle of the balcony, staring in disbelief at the container.

"Are you ok?"

Grissom turned abruptly. He thought everybody had left, but Janice was still there. She carefully closed the door, mindful of the broken doorknob.

"Damn, I'll have to pay for this." She muttered. "They'll think we had one hell of a party."

She walked around Grissom and leant on the rail. "Nice view." She said, looking down for a moment. She turned and looked at him. "So?"

She was looking expectantly at him and Grissom had no idea why.

"What?" he frowned.

"I asked you if you were ok." she said gently. "You've just been outed, baby."

"Huh?" He asked, without understanding.

"Gil?" she touched his face, forcing him to focus his attention on her. "Did you hear me?" she insisted, "Greg knows about you and John, now."

"And?" He asked. Actually, he couldn't care less. Right now he was only aware of the object in his hands- the coolness of the bronze, the urn's elaborate carvings, and the weight of John's ashes inside.

He put it on the rail.

"Gil-" she started, afraid that he was simply going to let it fall. But Grissom didn't do that. He kept it secure between his hands.

"I don't want his ashes." He blurted out.

"Then scatter them." She said, "Let the wind do its job."

Grissom put his hand on the lid but he didn't open it. He tried saying something, but he couldn't.

"You need to get over him, Gil." She said after a moment.

Grissom scoffed bitterly.

"I got over him a long time ago," he turned and looked at her in the eye, "Do you know how long it took me? A couple of days." He said, "By then I had a full-time job and no time to feel sorry for myself."

"That's what you keep saying to yourself. But I know better."

"You don't." He muttered.

She looked at him for a moment.

"I know you," she said, "I know that you've kept your feelings under control for so long that -"

"I don't want to talk about this, Janice." He said.

"You have to. Gil, you have to," she said vehemently, "If you don't, one of these days your feelings will flare up out of control," she said, "And it won't be pretty," she looked away, "I just hope I'm not there when it happens."

"So, don't be." He said curtly.

She looked at him.

She realized that her words had hurt him and he had responded the only way he knew: by rejecting her.

"I didn't mean it." She said softly, "You know I'll be there; whenever you need me."

She stared at him until he looked away.

Grissom stared at the distant street below, but he was aware of her. His friend- his oldest friend, as he had called her, was standing next to him, keeping him company.

He was suddenly reminded of the time he'd been at the hospital, recuperating from a ruptured ulcer. His college pals had come and gone, but Janice had been there almost daily, reading to him or simply sharing his silence and holding his hand.

One day, warmed up by her reassuring presence, he'd blurted out things that he'd never told anyone, before or since. He hadn't said much, really; just 'Parents are supposed to take care of you' and 'They're supposed to protect you,' but he'd never forgotten that moment of weakness. From then on, he had avoided talking to her about anything remotely personal.

Until this convention.

They ended up sitting on the floor, huddled against each other.

"I wish I knew more about you," she said wistfully, "then maybe I'd understand why it's so hard for you to open up-"

"I tried once." Grissom said, looking down at the urn he was still holding in his hands.

"Johnnie." She said.

Grissom smiled faintly as he reminisced. Right after his ulcer scare and a couple of weeks in therapy, Grissom had mustered the courage to approach John. It was the first time that he'd acted on his feelings and he was thrilled when the older man said yes.

Years later, Grissom would wonder whether John had said yes out of a genuine interest or mere pity, but at the time he had been just what Grissom needed - an older, seemingly wiser man teaching him, taking care of him and giving him his approval. John had helped Grissom build a new life out of the ashes of his unhappy past.

John had helped him realize that to do a job well and to be dependable were noble goals in life.

"Unfortunately, Johnnie had _issues_." She said.

That was an understatement, but Grissom felt it was unfair too.

"He saved me, Jan." He said. "He helped me realize there was something to live for; something that could actually help me forget my personal problems."

"The job." She said.

He nodded.

"You two settled for less than you could have had." She said.

"He had issues, but so did I, Janice" he admitted, "We _were_ wrong for each other."

"But you didn't think so at the time."

"No." He admitted sheepishly. "After graduation I thought we'd work together and live together, but he didn't. He said that we needed to concentrate on our jobs, and that a relationship would keep us from doing that."

He looked at the urn, "I tried to talk him into giving it a chance, but…" he looked at her, "He'd always been afraid of inheriting his mother's disease. At the time I thought he was being irrational-" he faltered a little, "but now we know he wasn't. He was fine your years, though. Depression didn't manifest itself until about fifteen years after leaving Forensics."

"Then why did he leave his job at the morgue?"

"He said he needed to keep an eye on himself." He mused, "He couldn't do that at the morgue; he couldn't deal with the long shifts and the unpredictability. He couldn't even face the same people hour after hour. That's why he loved teaching," he smiled, "He chose his own hours." He smiled bitterly, "He used to say it was like acting a part for short periods of time; the part of a sane man."

"Jesus, Gil." She muttered. "What was his mother's problem?"

"John described her as someone who was usually either too happy or too sad to do anything."

"Bipolar." She said.

"Yeah." He nodded, "She spent years in and out of clinics, but it seems that whenever she returned home, she'd stop taking her medication. She made quite an impact in John's life, Jan; she was incapable of dealing with even the simplest tasks, she'd scream impatiently until someone took over."

He took a deep breath, "Then just before John turned eighteen, she took every pill she could find, dissolved them in a glass of whiskey, and-" he shrugged.

"Oh, shit." She muttered, "I had no idea."

"He didn't want people to know any of this. But I'm telling _you_ so you understand why he did it. Foxy was right, you know? John would have done it, sooner or later. He would live, just as long as _he_ could have absolute control over his illness." He looked down, "I didn't understand that at the time. I remember offering to take care of him if he ever became sick. He was horrified."

Grissom said and he smiled a little at the memory, "There I was, talking with optimism about his illness, while he must have been thinking of his mother lying in bed, waiting for someone to change her soiled sheets." He was silent for a moment, remembering. "Finally he just quoted, '_I can endure my own despair but not another man's hope' _and I took the hint."

"He was a bastard." She muttered.

"Don't say that." He smiled, "He _knew_ that I was too troubled to help him. Shit, _I_ needed help." He admitted.

They were silent for a moment.

Grissom looked up at the sky, dark and starry.

"He should have met someone like Greg." he said softly, "Greg would have convinced him to take a chance." He added, "He has this… joy of life that's contagious." He glanced at Janice, "You talk to him for a couple of minutes and suddenly you feel glad to be alive."

Janice nodded, smiling.

"He would have changed John's outlook," Grissom said.

He looked away.

"For years I acted as if Greg exasperated me," he confessed, "I interrupted him whenever he talked too much, and whenever he entered my office I always found an excuse to leave. I kept avoiding him, and I never asked myself why." He added, shaking his head in disbelief, "And then one night I saw him kissing another man and suddenly I understood why I'd tried so hard to keep my distance."

"That means your heart's still open to possibilities, Gil." She said, softly, "I think that's great."

Grissom scoffed.

"I just want things to be normal again." He muttered.

"Why?"

"Because it's a waste of time," he said, surprised that she was even asking.

"Maybe it's not." She argued, "Why don't you tell him?" when he shook his head, she added, "Gil, what's the worst that could happen? You don't think he'd be mean, do you?"

"No; he wouldn't-" Grissom accepted reluctantly.

"And who knows? Maybe he'll give you a chance; maybe he'll-"

"Wait, Janice," he said, and he was smiling faintly now, "Since when do you have this romantic streak in you?"

"I've always had it," she retorted, "But it's wasted on coroners, so I hide it." She looked at him for a moment. She smiled a little, "Come on. Don't tell me you wouldn't like to be with him."

"Janice, you're only thinking of me." He said patiently, "Just think of him for a moment and answer me this: do you think he should be with me?"

Janice hesitated.

"See?" he asked gently when she didn't answer.

They were silent for a moment.

"Make him an offer he can't refuse, Jan." he said without looking at her, "Please."

"What if he doesn't want to leave?" she challenged, "What if he decides to stay and tries to be your friend?"

"I don't want his friendship." He said adamantly. "I need to leave all this behind."

"Oh, for God's sake, Gil-" she said angrily, and she rose to her feet as if she couldn't stand being near him right now.

He looked up, frowning.

"What?"

"Haven't you learned anything these past days, Gil?" she asked. "Doesn't John's death mean anything to you?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You wasted all these years because you couldn't let go of him. He's dead and you still can't let go-" she shook her head, "And you know something else? You're just like him." she said angrily. "You've kept secrets from all of us; you've kept secrets from me, your so-called oldest friend; you live alone, you don't let anybody get close to you, and your job is so important to you that if you lose it, you'll-"

She didn't finish, but he understood. He was stunned.

"You think I'd kill myself?" there was surprise but also a flash of anger in his eyes as he asked this, but it was brief. He got himself under control, "I don't have any plans for it, Janice. I thought you knew me better than that."

She reluctantly nodded.

"I know you wouldn't shoot yourself." she said softly. "You don't like to be touched, so I guess you'd dread the idea of being on a slab, at the mercy of a coroner's hands."

Grissom was stunned to hear this assessment of his personality but before he could say anything she continued.

"I think that if you lost your job, you'd simply disappear," she said sadly, "You'd leave without thinking of the pain you'd inflict on us. We'd be left behind, wondering… Wondering why you never believed that we loved you." she leant on the rail. "We do, you know. Not like John, but -"

She heard him snort in disbelief.

"Oh, baby," She sighed, "He really did…" She sighed, "You know what I think? He didn't reject you because he thought you couldn't take care of him; he did it because he knew you _would_ do it. He just didn't want to drag you into his private hell." she shook her head, "I'm sure he regretted that decision, Gil. In the end, all he could do was try to make it up to you. He planned a fishing trip so you could have your friends back, he left his treasures to you… And he left you his ashes-"

"As some sort of consolation prize." he interrupted hoarsely.

"No, baby." she said, gently laying her hand on his head, "He left them to you 'cause he realized there was only one person who could take care of him and all he cared about. He entrusted you with his lifework and-"

"And his body turned into ashes?" he finished.

"Not his body." She whispered, "His soul. I think he needs you to pray for him."

Grissom looked up into her eyes, and for the first time she saw the pain that he was feeling, clearly etched in his face. But it was for a brief moment only. He looked down at the urn again.

She gave him a little time to compose himself.

After a moment, he rose to his feet and eyed the door as if he couldn't wait to leave.

"What will you do with his ashes?" she asked.

"I don't know yet." He said softly, taking a hesitant step towards the door.

"What about Greg?" she said hurriedly, before he could walk away.

"Janice-" he sighed tiredly.

"Can't you take friendship, Gil?"

"I can't-"

"I took yours." She said quietly.

He froze.

She smiled gently.

"Remember how you told me that friendship was all you could offer?" she asked and waited until he nodded. "I took it and I never looked back."

"Jan-"

She reached out for his arm.

"I never regretted taking your friendship." She said, firmly. "I'm not saying that it was easy for me at first," she admitted, "But I got used to it. I know that I can count on you for a monthly phone call and a funny card with insects on it for my birthday." She squeezed his arm, "I wouldn't change all that for anything in the world." she smiled, "Let that be a lesson to you, Dr. Grissom."

"I was sorry." He whispered. "You know I wish I-"

"Hey, I know." she smiled gently, "_I know_."

They remained in silence. Her fingers were still wrapped around his arm, and he wished he could reach out and put his arms around her, but…damn it, he couldn't. He couldn't act a part.

She dropped her hand at last.

She smiled.

"So," she said brightly, "Will I see you tomorrow at breakfast?" she asked, as she started for the door.

"Yes." He said, but he didn't move and she noticed it.

"You're not coming?"

"No." he said, "I'll… I'll stay here for a while." He said. Now that she was leaving, he was in no hurry to move from this balcony.

She nodded. Of course; he needed to be alone.

Grissom put the urn on the rail and stared at it for a moment, trying to decide what to do.

He'd lift the lid, bury his hand in the ashes and –

No; he would simply tilt the urn so the ashes fell –

He closed his eyes. He couldn't do this. Not yet. He'd make a decision later. Some day-

He took a deep, cleansing breath.

It was all over at last – the wake and the convention – and now he could put it all behind him. Right now, all he wanted was to go back to his room and watch TV until he was too exhausted to think anymore.

But when he entered the penthouse, he realized that his ordeal wasn't finished yet.

Greg was still there.

TBC

Will they get together?

Of course they will. Otherwise why bother?

Thank you for reviewing!


	7. Chapter seven

DECISIONS

There's a lot of Greg in this chapter…

This chapter was revised on March 2006.

* * *

Greg had remained on the sidelines during the confrontation between Grissom and Fox, and then he'd heard in silence as Bernie talked about Dr. Garrison's last wishes. Later, he had not protested when they steered him back inside, leaving Janice and Grissom outside.

But when Bernie told him to go get some sleep, Greg refused.

"Don't worry about him," Bernie had insisted, "Gil likes to be alone and besides, Jan is with him right now."

"I'll clean up." Greg had offered then, making it impossible for Bernie to refuse. The place was a mess after all; something had to be done about it.

"All right, young Sanders. Stay."

Greg set out to work, then. He picked up empty bottles and piled them by the bar; he collected empty food containers and leftovers, and threw everything into the large plastic bags that Bernie had brought.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, he started taking down the pictures that Janice had pinned on the wall. He worked mechanically at first - he wasn't ready to deal with all the revelations of the night, (after all, how could he reconcile Grissom's recent behavior with the fact that he'd had a gay affair?)

But as he took down a picture of Grissom and Dr. Garrison alone, he couldn't help to look at it. He realized it was one of the pictures that Grissom had been looking at earlier in the night. Greg had seen it before and didn't recall anything special: Grissom and the dead guy were sitting on the floor, surrounded by books and empty bottles of Coke.

Nothing extraordinary about it, apart from the shock of seeing a young, long-haired Gil Grissom. Nothing- unless you knew what to look for.

With new hindsight, Greg discovered little details, like the way the guys were casually leaning against each other, their thighs and their shoulders touching –just like buddies, one might say, but also like lovers, comfortable with the closeness.

Greg smiled knowingly; those two were definitely _doing it_ at the time. It was there, in their satisfied smiles. This might be Grissom's favorite picture and Greg didn't blame him. He and Garrison looked good in it. Handsome and happy –_really_ happy. Greg didn't doubt they got along really well in bed. He wondered if Grissom liked to-

Abruptly, Greg shook his head. He was _not_ going to follow that line of thought; it was almost like thinking of your parents having sex, for God's sake-

He was still looking at the picture when the balcony door opened and Janice came in.

She smiled brightly –too brightly- when she saw him.

"Baby, you're still here?"

"I'm waiting for Grissom." Greg said, glancing at the door. "How is he?"

Her smile faltered a little.

"He's ok," she said evasively, "He just needs a little time by himself." she added pointedly. She took Greg's arm and gently steered him towards the door. "I can't tell you how sorry I am that you had to witness all this dramatic stuff." She said, patting his arm, "We're usually more lively than this, believe me. Next time you come to a reunion, I promise you'll see diferent side-"

"Janice," he interrupted, "I can't leave-"

"Greg, he really doesn't want to talk right now. Why don't you wait until tomorrow to- " She stopped and looked closely at him. "You look miserable," she frowned, "What is it?"

"Nothing," he started, but Janice's concern was genuine and he really needed to talk to someone, "I messed up." He confessed.

"What do you mean?"

"I said some things to Grissom –really crappy stuff" he gulped, "I insulted him."

"Oh, it can't be that bad-"

"It's worse," he said sheepishly, "I really fucked up things, Janice."

"Are you sure?" she asked and he nodded.

She didn't try to reassure him with platitudes; she was a practical woman.

"Well, if you believe you did, then you have to apologize." She put her arm around his shoulder, "Listen. Just tell him _why_ you said what you said and he'll understand."

"I don't think he will," Greg mumbled.

"Hey," she interrupted sternly, "I know him better than you do, Greg." She softened her tone, "Look, there's something you should know about Gil. He's a gentle, forgiving man. He doesn't hold personal grudges, despite all that stuff Foxy said tonight. I know he gives the impression that he's unemotional and distant but he's not, Greg. He's…"

She hesitated, "He's only trying to protect himself. He's a sensitive man and sometimes he'd been too sensitive for his own good-" She looked at him, "I'm telling you this only because you seem to care about him. _Don't _take advantage of it-"

"I won't." he said.

"And don't tell him I said what I said about him... Because, if you do-" she made it sound like a threat and Greg nodded solemnly.

She was still steering him out of the room, but he gently pulled his arm away.

"Janice," he said, "I'm gonna stay for a while."

Janice looked at him thoughtfully.

"Fine." she said eventually, "Stay. Talk to him. And, hey," she said before closing the door behind her, "If he gets difficult, call me."

And now Grissom was back in the room.

* * *

Greg didn't miss the look on Grissom's face as he realized he wasn't alone in the penthouse; it was a look that said, 'Oh, crap; not now. '

Greg wasn't surprised. After the events of the night, and after their earlier conversation, he knew he was probably the last person that Grissom wanted to talk to.

Grissom pointedly walked to the table. He wanted to pick up whatever he had left there, and then leave this room.

All he wanted was to put this whole night behind him.

But it wasn't going to be so easy. Not only was Greg there to remind him that his secrets were now in the open, but there was also something waiting for him on the table: A neatly stacked pile of photo albums. John's legacy.

Grissom realized he would not be able to carry those and the urn at the same time; he'd definitely have to come back. Resigned, he started to pick up the albums. After a momen, a familiar sight caught his attention. There, among cigarette butts, discarded cards, and dirty napkins, were several personal items that his friends had forgotten: Reading glasses, address books, pens, and even an expensive watch.

Grissom smiled despite himself. He began collecting the items, musing on how some things never changed. Back in the old days, whenever they went to a party or a concert or whatever, Grissom would pick up all the objects that his drunken –or stoned- friends left behind. Then the next day the guys went to his room, sheepishly hoping he'd kept an eye on their belongings. Cheaper stuff than this, but valuable to poor students like them.

Grissom wondered if his friends had left all this on purpose, just to remind him of the old days.

He was musing on this possibility, when behind him, Greg cleared his throat.

"Grissom-" he started, "I… hum."

Grissom glanced back. Greg was standing in the middle of the room, looking apologetic.

He was also uncharacteristically tongue-tied. He didn't seem to find the right words to say.

Grissom didn't want to wait. Besides, he could guess what was in his colleague's mind.

"I had Otosclerosis," He said matter-of-factly, "It's a hereditary disease. I had an operation and I recovered completely. I _was_ losing my hearing," he admittd, "But contrary to what Foxy said, I never put my cases in danger."

"It's ok, Grissom." Greg said reassuringly, "I knew you'd never let anything like that happen"

"Ok, then." Grissom said curtly, acting as if they had nothing else to talk about. When Greg didn't move, he added, "You can go now."

"I can't." he said, "I… hum. I promised Dr. Bernard I'd stay and clean up." Greg said. "I didn't touch the table because I didn't know what to do about those-" he said, eyeing the personal objects on the table.

"I'll return them to their rightful owners tomorrow." Grissom said, turning back to his task. After a moment, Greg spoke again.

"Grissom," he paused until Grissom reluctantly turned to him. "I'm sorry," he said, fervently hoping it wasn't too late to patch things up with his boss. "For… you know, the things I said. I was over the line -" he admitted, "I thought the worst things about you. I just didn't know-"

"You didn't know what?" Grissom interrupted.

"That you two- you know. That Dr. Garrison and you-"

"And you still _don't _know, Greg." Grissom interrupted, a warning implied in his tone.

Greg frowned.

"But they all said-" he started, a bit confused at first. When he understood what Grissom meant, he was appalled. "Jesus, Grissom, you don't think I'm going to _tell_, do you?"

"Tell about what?" Grissom asked sternly.

"Nothing." Greg mumbled. "Nothing, sir."

"Good." Grissom approved. Silently dismissing Greg again, he turned back to the table and carefully put his friends' forgotten belongings in one of the shoe boxes that Bernie's had brought.

"I _am _sorry." Greg insisted.

Grissom sighed impatiently. Evidently, Greg wasn't going to leave the matter alone.

"I did exactly what you've told me not to," Greg continued, "I assumed. I drew the wrong conclusions, and I didn't even -"

"Greg?" Grissom interrupted, using his most exasperated tone, "Let's just forget it. Ok?"

Greg knew that tone very well. It meant, 'stop babbling, right now.'

Greg immediately backed off.

"Ok, sir" Greg said slowly. He silently watched as Grissom finished piling the albums, and then he saw him hesitate between the albums and the urn. After a moment, Grissom picked up the albums, but didn't seem happy about leaving the urn behind.

"Want me to give you hand?" Greg asked, reaching for the photo albums.

"I have it covered." Grissom said, firmly wrestling the albums away from Greg.

"You'll need help," Greg insisted. "You can't carry these and the urn at the same time-"

"It's not necessary-" Grissom was trying hard not to ask Greg to please leave him the hell alone. He hated this; he almost wished Greg were still angry at him; a solicitous Greg was more than he could stand right now.

"Grissom," Greg said quietly, "Just let me help."

They stared at each other for a moment.

Grissom realized that Greg was only trying to make it up to him.

"Ok," he said.

* * *

A while later, they left the Penthouse together. Both were carrying bags- Grissom had his urn and his friends' belongings, and Greg carried the photo albums.

They entered the elevator in silence. Greg was nervous. He still had several questions to ask his boss but he knew he'd have to thread carefully; otherwise Grissom would simply tell him to bug off.

Grissom himself wasn't aware of Greg's private turmoil; he was more interested by the fact that the young man was standing as far away from him as he could -not like the day before, when he had even offered to massage his arm.

Did he think that Grissom was going to make a pass at him or something?

"Are you uncomfortable, Greg?"

"What? No." Greg said quickly.

Grissom smiled bitterly.

'If he really _knew_,' He thought, looking straight ahead, 'If I told him…' he smiled faintly as he pictured it, 'He'd stop this elevator and jump out… He'd run fast, and he'd probably accept whatever job they offered, just to get away-'

Neither of them spoke as they got out of the elevator and walked down the hallway.

It wasn't until Grissom was searching for his key that Greg finally said something.

"Are you ashamed?"

Grissom knew exactly what Great meant. He frowned for a moment.

"I'm not." he said evenly. He found his key and looked at it for a moment, "I'm not particularly proud either." He said as an afterthought. "It's a part of who I am, Greg -" He shrugged, "but it's not the most important part."

He was going to insert the key when Greg spoke again.

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"It's a private matter." He said as if should be obvious.

"What I don't understand is why you kept me at arm's length these past weeks," he said, "Of all the people you talked to every day, I was probably the only one who would have understood. Instead, you acted as if you didn't want me around."

Grissom stopped.

"Greg..." He started. "I'm sorry." He said as sincerely as he could, "Sometimes I forget that my actions may affect other people."

It was an inadecquate apology, but Greg seemed to accept it.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked after a moment . "Do I remind you of him?"

Grissom didn't answer; he carefully inserted the key into the slot, as if such a simple action required all his attention.

"Do I remind you of Dr. Garrison?" Greg insisted, "You see, I was looking at the pictures and I think I look a bit like him. I mean, he was thin and he had bushy eyebrows -" he paused but Grissom didn't say anything, "I've been thinking that maybe I reminded you of him and that's why you didn't want me around; maybe seeing me was too painful, or something."

Grissom didn't think Greg looked like John, but if Greg chose to believe it, then it was fine by him.

"It explains things, right?" Greg said.

Grissom realized that Greg needed to understand his recent behavior, and was practicaly offering him an easy way out.

"Greg," He started, "Whatever the reasons... I was wrong," he said, "I let my personal life interfere with my work at the lab," Grissom said, "I am sorry."

"Hey, it's ok." Greg said good-naturedly, "I understand." He waited until Grissom turned on the lights to enter the suite. "Where do you want me to put these?" he asked, lifting the photo albums.

"Put them on the coffee table." Grissom said.

Greg did so carefully, and then looked around appraisingly.

"Hey, this is nice, Grissom. Big TV, big couch, high ceilings…" he smiled. He walked straight to the window and parted a curtain to peer outside, "Nice view too, although you don't have a balcony. But then who needs a balcony with a room like this, right?" he turned, expecting to see Grissom by his side. He was stunned to discover that Grissom was still standing by the door, obviously waiting for him to leave.

"Thanks for the help, Greg." Grissom said deliberately. "If you hurry, you might still catch the party."

Greg let the curtain fall.

"I thought I'd stay a while." He said tentatively. Grissom didn't say anything. "I mean," Greg said, starting to get nervous, "Don't you want to, you know, talk?" Greg offered.

"Not tonight."

"Oh, Ok." Greg said, good-naturedly, "I know you get pissed off when I yak too much," He smiled, "But if you really need to talk... I'm here. I mean, you might not believe this, but I'm a good listener-" he smiled.

Grissom smiled despite himself.

"Thanks, Greg." He nodded, "Maybe some other time."

"Ok." He said, "But hey, there are other things we might do to pass the time, right? We could watch TV, we could play something," he reached into his pocket, "I collected some cards. They're all greasy, and I don't think the pack's complete, but still-"

"Greg-"

Again, the warning tone that Greg knew well… but it didn't intimidate him this time.

"Grissom, if you want me to leave, I will," he said quietly, "but then I'll just sit outside your door."

"Why?" Grissom frowned, "Are you afraid of leaving me alone?" he glared, "Did Janice ask you to do this?"

"No." he quickly said, "No. I just… I just don't think you should mourn your friend alone." He said simply.

Grissom wanted to say that he was not in mourning, but before he could, Greg continued.

"I mean, you're not going to sleep, are you? After all the things that happened tonight, you've got to be wired-" he paused, and now Grissom's indecision was answer enough. Encouraged by his boss' silence, Greg reached for the remote on the coffee table. "Want to watch some PBS or any of the Discovery channels?"

Grissom didn't say yes, but he reluctantly closed the door and leant against it.

Greg smiled. He turned on the TV and was about to sit, when he saw something beyond the couch that absolutely caught his attention.

He practically froze.

"Wow," he muttered simply.

_Wow_? Grissom frowned. He approached Greg in order to see what it was that had enchanted Greg to the point of speechlessness.

"Greg?" he asked incredulously.

Greg didn't turn; he was mesmerized by a vision that seemed to combine comfort and the promise of infinite pleasure: Half hidden behind sheer curtains, bathed by the softest of lights, and covered by a luxurious black comforter and a dozen cushions, there stood _The Bed_.

"Oh, man…" Greg whispered.

"What?" Grissom asked impatiently, "You've seen beds before-"

"Not like this." He shook his head, "Not outside the movies." Greg slowly walked towards it, "What is this, Grissom? The Honeymoon Suite? Hell, my _room_ downstairs is smaller than this bed!" he chuckled. He tentatively patted it; then he sat and bounced on it a couple of times. "You're lucky, you know that?"

Grissom smiled faintly. He had slept three nights on that bed but he had not enjoyed it as much as Greg had in just a few seconds.

"So," Greg smiled, "this is what big shots like you get in these conventions, huh? You've been sleeping in linen sheets all this time-"

"Satin." Grissom said evenly.

"Really?" Greg lifted the bedspread and peered under it, "_Black_ satin sheets, Grissom?"

Greg rolled his eyes, and Grissom thought he knew what Greg was thinking: _What a waste_.

But Greg didn't say anything; he was too busy making himself comfortable: He lay down on the bed and sighed noisily and pleasurably.

Grissom stared at the young man. He didn't want to, but on the other hand, he couldn't resist. Greg was lying with his eyes closed and his arms open, and he was making all sorts of noises –sexy, breathy noises.

"Ooooh, yeah…." Greg sighed, "I could stay in this bed for a week." He whispered dreamily. "I'd order room service three times a day… I'd read a little, _play_ a little; hell, I'd even find a way of doing my job from here-" he opened his eyes and glanced at the ceiling, "But first I'd put a mirror up there," he muttered to himself. Then he closed his eyes again and smiled, "Ha! If Tim could see me right now-"

Grissom winced. _Tim_. The guy that Greg was kissing that night-

Or maybe somebody else…?

Grissom decided he didn't want to know, and turned away.

* * *

TBC 


	8. Chapter eight

DECISIONS

Well! It only took me three months to get them together! But in the story it only took four days.

I hope you like this. Let me know!

* * *

Greg didn't notice that Grissom had walked away until he heard noises coming from the living room. 

Greg sat up quickly.

"Hey. Hey, Grissom?"

"Make yourself comfortable, Greg." He called out sarcastically.

Greg returned to the living room. Grissom was sitting on one corner of the couch, staring intently at the TV.

"Sorry." Greg said sheepishly. "I was joking, Grissom." He added, but his boss didn't acknowledge the words. Greg cautiously sat on the couch and asked, using a conciliatory tone, "So, what are we going to watch?"

"Brother Cadfael."

"Oh." _Boring_, he thought. "Isn't that what you were watching yesterday?" he asked, but Grissom ignored him. In other circumstances Greg would have suggested a couple of shows they could watch instead, but he wisely refrained from doing so. He took off his jacket and carelessly put it on the back of the couch, then sat back and resigned himself to his fate. He watched in silence.

…For about ten minutes.

"So, how much did you pay for this suite?"

"I didn't pay anything." Grissom said, and he almost laughed at the look of surprise on Greg's face, "Hey," he said, "I deserved it. I worked my ass off at this convention."

Greg smiled; he could have turned that line into half a dozen jokes –most of them lewd- but he restrained himself. This was his boss, and they were still patching things up. Besides, Grissom was already looking away, apparently absorbed by the show.

Greg tried to watch but soon he grew restless; he rarely sat quietly while watching TV -he was always doing something else, like reading, or eating, or surfing the net. He looked around for something to read; he had seen a pile of booksin the bedroom and was going to go get one, when he noticed the albums on the coffee table. He took one and glanced at Grissom - in case he objected - but the older man stubbornly kept his eyes on the screen, even after PBS interrupted the program to make a pledge for funding.

Reassured, Greg opened the album and browsed through it.

He didn't know that Grissom was fighting the urge to snatch the photo album out of his hands; it was his past that Greg was looking at and Grissom didn't want to share it with anybody. Greg was bound to start asking questions about the pictures- Grissom was sure of that.And yet, he couldn't muster the energy to ask him to leave. Grissom didn't want to be alone, just as the young man had guessed. Greg's presence was somehow comforting. Annoying, but comforting.

And yet, his being there forcedGrissom to face a crucial fact: He'd never be able to work with someone who knew this much about him. It would be like being naked, except that it would not be his body out there in the open, but his thoughts, and his soul. His one consolation was that Greg might eventually get a job offer and leave. Leave and forget-

"You were staring at this picture tonight." Greg said suddenly.

Grissom briefly glanced at it but refrained from comment. It was the picture that Bernie's father had taken on graduation day.

Greg felt a pang of sadness for his boss. In this picture, Grissom and Dr. Garrison were _not_ standing together, and they were definitely _not_ smiling. Grissom was staring ahead –not at the camera, but at something else. At something only he could see, Greg mused. A lonely future, perhaps?

"You were very similar, right?" Greg asked, still studying the picture. "Even your names sounded alike. You must have felt like there was a connection from the start."

Grissom didn't comment, but he looked at the picture again.

"I look like I'm at someone's funeral," he muttered.

"You'd just broken up, right?" Greg asked gently.

Grissom winced. He thought he had made it clear that they would not talk about this. He looked away. The show was on again and he pretended to be engrossed by it, even though his thoughts were elsewhere. He was trying to remember that day, so long ago, when that picture was taken. He was trying to remember what he had felt then. He had been devastated, obviously. But Grissom also remembered getting over the devastation rather quickly. All it took was a couple of months. Maybe getting over Greg would be even easier.

"Do you still have feelings for him?" Greg asked cautiously.

"For an urn full of ashes?" he scoffed, "I don't think so."

"Come on, you know what I mean-"

"Greg-" he said, a warning implied in his tone. _Stop babbling_.

"Ok." Greg said, backing off. But only for a moment. "Can I ask you something?"

Grissom sighed.

"Greg, I don't want to talk about John-"

"It's not about him. I just… I was wondering if your family knows about it," he paused, "About you."

"I don't know." he said evasively; no way was he going to talk about his family now. But when he looked at Greg, he had the feeling that this was something his young colleague needed to discuss. "What about yours?" he asked reluctantly.

"Well…My sisters know," Greg said, "My mom knows and pretends she doesn't," he paused, "But at least she gave up trying to get me a girlfriend." He smiled sheepishly. He looked down, "Then there's papa Olaf-"

"He doesn't know?"

"He knows," Greg said, "and he says it's ok-"

"But?" coaxed Grissom.

Greg shrugged.

"Well…"He said reluctantly, "Sometimes I have the feeling that he's disappointed. He's never said anything- But when he's with my sisters' children, he acts as if he wished I had kids too-" he shrugged. "Or that I was married."

Grissom thought about it for a moment.

"He loves you Greg," Grissom said gently, "He wants you to be happy, and he simply equates happiness with marriage." He paused, and then he smiled faintly, "He probably wishes there were a couple of little Gregs running around, yakking and teasing everyone." He looked at Greg, "He probably feels the world would be a better place if there were more people like you."

Greg gaped.

"Wow, Grissom." He said, smiling widely, "That's a nice thing to say."

Grissom held his gaze for a moment and then he turned his attention to the TV screen, while Greg continued browsing.

Then, out of the blue the young man spoke and Grissom winced again.

"You were really good-looking, Grissom." he said as he stared at some pictures taken during a camping trip, "I mean, you look ok now, but back then… _wow_. I mean, look at these pictures-" He didn't look up as he chattered away, blissfully unaware that his words were flattering and crushing Grissom at the same time, "You know…" he smiled, "Looking at these pictures kinda makes me wish I'd met you all those years ago."

"If we had met then, I would have had to change your diapers, Greg." Grissom said dryly.

Greg chuckled.

"Nah, I was already past that, I think. But seriously," he added, "How come you never had other relationships?"

Grissom smiled faintly but didn't say anything. He'd had several relationships right after John. Mistakes, all of them. He'd hoped that other people would fill the emptiness- not the emptiness that John had left, but the one that John himself had not been able to fill.

"So, you've never loved anybody else?" Greg insisted.

"I guess not." He muttered, looking back at the TV.

"Why-" He started to ask but Grissom gave him a look, one that Greg knew well. It meant, 'if you ask another question I'm going to be pissed.' Greg was intimidated, but not for long. "It seems like a waste, to me," he muttered. "You're a good guy. You should have more _fun_, if you know what I mean."

"I have fun, Greg." He said, and he reddened because he was suddenly reminded of the fact that Greg _knew_ what he did for fun. He rode roller coasters by himself.

Greg seemed to know what was going on in his mind. His manner was apologetic.

"I said some shitty stuff to you today-"

"Well, there's no arguing with the truth, Greg." Grissom said simply, "Besides, you were angry."

"Yeah, but…" he hesitated, "I think I was more hurt than angry. Ever since that night at the disco, I've had the feeling that you were trying to keep me as far away from you as you could. I mean, you even let me look for another job-"

"Greg," he interrupted. He tried to find the right words, "I didn't handle this the way I should have," he admitted. "The truth is I failed you as a supervisor."

"You failed me? How?"

"I should have supervised you more often, Greg. I should have made sure you were ready for the final proficiency test but I did not-"

"It was _my_ mistake-" interrupted Greg.

"- and I'm sorry." Grissom finished.

Greg stared at him. He'd never blame Grissom for his failure at the proficiency test, but hearing him say 'I'm sorry' was important to him -although it made him feel like crap, too. After all, he had acted like an ass these past days, insulting Grissom and calling him names.

And yet... _Grissom had apologized to him_.

It was like he was seeing him for the first time.

"Would you tell me about your most memorable case, Grissom?"

"My what?" he asked, bewildered.

"Your most memorable case." Greg repeated, "Everyone has at least one, right?" he smiled knowingly, "A case that's always there to either upset you or help you sleep better; and it's there because the perp got away or because he was nailed thanks to you." He paused. "You must have one. Everyone does. When I asked Janice, she didn't even have to think it over; it was in the back of her mind. Hell," he scowled, "she practically reenacted the autopsy for me."

Grissom smiled.

"And she told you the story while eating a nice meal, right?"

"Yeah." Greg smiled. "She was eating a steak –rare and bloody, just perfect for the occasion."

Greg looked expectantly at him.

Grissom leant back in his seat, and after a moment's hesitation, he spoke.

"There's one case-" he started tentatively, "One of the first I handled as a coroner, actually. It happened during one of the worst winters we'd had in years." He explained, "The morgue was filled up to capacity. People were dying from the cold, mostly the old and the homeless; so, when the cops found a dead _young_ woman they suspected foul play. Theyfound her in an abandoned building, lying in a fetal position under a pile of newspapers, and she wearing every piece of clothing she owned. She was very small and young. And frozen." He paused as he remembered her, "Since we couldn't establish cause of death there, we bagged her and took her back to the morgue. We were inside the ambulance, sharing a thermos of coffee, when suddenly the body started to move inside the plastic bag."

"Wow. She was alive?"

"No." Grissom smiled, "She was dead, but she had been sheltering a little dog under her clothes all along. And the dog was alive."

"Oh, man. You must have freaked."

"Yeah." Grissom admitted with a sheepish smile, "We never admitted this to anyone, but we just froze. The supervisor was the first to react; he opened the bag and started to revive the girl, only to hear a dog whimpering." he shook his head. "We had assumed the poor girl was pregnant-"

"So, what happened?"

"It was established that she had been doing a meager living as a hooker and, weak and malnourished as she was, had spent her last dollars on a hamburger for herself and a four-pound bag of dog food." Grissom shook his head slightly as he remembered, "She could have easily found shelter for herself-"

"But not for the dog." Greg finished.

They were silent for a moment.

"Did you find out who killed her?"

"She wasn't murdered; she really died of exposure." Grissom smiled when he noticed Greg's disappointment. The young man had probably hoped for a thrilling story.

"Were you able to identify her?"

"Well, the authorities couldn't spare many resources on her; she was just another runaway. We put her picture on the local papers, but nobody came forward. She had very few possessions, except for her second-hand clothing; and no jewelry, except for some rosary beads-"

"She was Catholic." Greg said.

"Yes. It was the rosary beads that helped us in the end. They were antique; a family heirloom that we tracked all the way to Louisiana. One day we got a call from the girl's mother. Her story was the one we had already guessed: Lee Anne Perry had left home and hitchhiked to San Francisco a couple of years earlier. She had lived with friends –good friends at first, not so good, afterwards. Mrs. Perry said she had pleaded with her, but could never convince her to come back. She said she had cried her last tears for Lee Ann a long time ago, and that she had focused her attention on the kids she had left. I told her that his daughter was trying to clean up; that although there were old signs of drug use, she'd been clean at the time of her death. But it wasn't until I told her the circumstances of her daughter's death that she showed any emotion. I thought she'd be angry at the way Lee Ann had wasted the last of her money, but she wasn't. She was glad. She was crying, but at the same time she was telling me how her daughter had always loved animals, and that her sacrifice meant that Lee Anne had kept a little of her old self alive inside her. Mrs. Perry said it was comforting."

"So… why do you remember this case?" Greg asked, still wondering what the big deal was.

"Well, I guess it taught me to keep an open mind." He explained, "We all thought that the girl had been incredibly stupid, keeping a dog alive while she herself was dying; but the truth is she was simply trying to keep her own soul alive."

At the mention of the word 'soul', Greg glanced at the urn.

"Do you want to talk?" he asked quietly, "About him, I mean. You can," he added when he noticed the look of reluctance on Grissom's face, "Whatever you say, it'll stay between us."

"Greg, I know you mean well, but there's nothing to tell."

Greg looked at his boss for a moment.

"Falling in love is nothing to be ashamed of, Grissom." He said quietly.

Grissom looked appraisingly at him.

"Have _you_ ever been in love, Greg?"

"Oh, I fall in love every time I go out." He smiled. "But then, the next day-" he shrugged.

"Ah yes, you told me," Grissom said dryly, "_Beer goggles_."

"Yeah."

Grissom smiled a little at this and turned his attention back to the TV screen, but Greg still had other questions.

"Did Dr. Garrison send you an e-mail, Grissom?You know, like he sent to Janice and the others?"

Grissom faltered a little. He definitely did not want to talk about this, but he knew that Greg would not leave the matter alone until he answered.

"Yeah." He said reluctantly. "He did." He hesitated before adding, "He wrote,

_"You hold the key to love and fear_

_All in your trembling hand_

_Just one key unlocks them both_

_It's there at your command"_

Greg frowned.

"Was he quoting anyone?"

"It's from a song." Grissom explained.

"It's kind of nice." Greg admitted, "It's meaningful too-"

"Do you want to know what I thought when I read it, Greg?" he asked, looking at Greg in the eye, "I thought, '_John's finally lost it_.' " He paused."Pretty callous, don't you think?" he asked bitterly.

"Shit, Grissom; you didn't know what it meant at the time-"

"Greg," he interrupted, "I'm not going to discuss this with you. Ok?" He paused in case Greg had something else to say, and then turned away.

His hands were trembling a little.

Greg backed off, but he cursed himself for asking that last question. He was not helping Grissom; on the contrary,the older man seemed to be more and more intent on keeping things inside. He was calm on the outside but Greg knew better. No one could be under such an emotional strain and not feel overwhelmed by it. Grissom should be crying or punching something, instead of sitting and watching TV as if nothing had happened.

Grissom needed some sort of outlet and Greg was wondering how to provide it.

And then he remembered something from his childhood.

_When Greg turned seven, his beloved grandfather gave him a bike. Oh, how he loved that bike! He would ride it up and down the street, pretending he was the commander of a powerful spacecraft, chasing monsters away from his galaxy. One day he was in hot pursuit of the enemy space fleet, so caught up in his game of make believe that he didn't see the car that was parked just ahead-_

_Greg flew. Literally._

_He was lucky; the bike got smashed beyond recognition but he only got skinned knees and a nasty cut on his forehead. Always a plucky kid, he got up and dusted himself off. Limping a little, he even managed to drag the remains of his bike home. _

_Except for the sadness he felt at the loss of his bike, he was pretty much ok… Until his mom saw him. She screamed and ran to him and threw her arms around him, squeezing him as if he were returning from the dead. And that's when Greg started to cry. He never understood why - he hadn't been seriously hurt, after all; and yet, as soon as his mother held him, he bawled. _

Greg glanced at Grissom. Maybe that's what Grissom needed, to let go?

Greg hesitated. He knew that taking the old man in his arms would simply freak him out. It would have to be done gradually –

He tentatively put his hand on Grissom's neck.

Grissom didn't freak out exactly; he only froze and looked sideways at Greg.

"What?"

"Nothing." Greg said, quickly withdrawing his hand. "I just…" he hesitated. "I thought you might be tense, and-"

"I'm not tense." Grissom said, turning his gaze back on the screen.

"Ok." Greg said, backing off. He rolled his eyes; maybe he should just forget all about comforting Grissom. Maybe he should simply give the TV show a chance.

After a while he started to follow the story; he was impressed by Brother Cadfael's rudimentary techniques as he quietly gathered evidence of a crime. For a monk in the middle ages, the guy was really savvy.

When the show was interrupted by yet another pledge from PBS, Grissom reached for the remote to turn the volume down, but he winced as if in pain.

Greg immediately noticed.

"Hey, how's your arm?" he asked, "Yesterday you were complaining that it hurt and today you practically picked up Fox out of the room."

"I didn't pick him up," Grissom muttered, but Greg was right; manhandling Foxy hadn't done his arm any good; now that the adrenaline had worn off, the pain had returned with a vengeance.

"I could massage it for you." Greg offered.

Grissom briefly closed his eyes in exasperation and opened his mouth to say no, but fortunately he remembered that it was precisely his refusal to be touched that had angered Greg so much yesterday. Right now he didn't want to anger Greg, if only because he hated making a mistake twice. It seemed easier to just let the young man do whatever he wanted to. Maybe then he would shut up and let him watch the show.

Besides, there was no element of surprise now; this time Grissom was ready for his colleague's touch.

Almost.

"Ok," he said quietly, lifting his arm a little.

Greg kneeled beside him on the couch. He carefully put one hand on Grissom's shoulder and one on his arm.

"It'll hurt a little," he warned as he dug his fingers on Grissom's flesh.

Grissom winced in pain.

"I know," Greg muttered sympathetically, as he worked on the arm. "It'll get better," he promised.

For a while all that could be heard was the rustle of the clothes and Grissom's labored breathing.

"You know," Greg said after a moment, "You're hard to figure out, sometimes."

"Why?" Grissom managed to ask between deep breaths.

"Well, you dragged Foxy outside as if you were going to beat the crap out of him," he explained, "And yet, you were the first to defend him."

Grissom didn't say anything. He was trying hard not to grunt in pain as Greg worked on his arm, but he had to admit that Greg's hands were really making a difference. They felt warm and reassuring. Greg really knew what he was doing. He had a healing touch.

"Do you think Dr. Bernard can build a case against him?"

"Uh, huh."

Gradually, Greg's touch grew gentler and soothing and Grissom started to relax.

Greg went to the bathroom and brought a towel back with him.

"It's sad that Dr. Garrison didn't wait a little bit, don't you think?" Greg said, wrapping the towel around Grissom's arm. "There are scandals at a university all the time. That student I talked to said that after a while things would have quieted down- "

Grissom shook his head.

"A couple of guys talked to me at the conference," he said hoarsely, "they asked me if they should keep John's name in their resumes. They were really worried about the stigma," he said, wincing as he moved his arm. It hurt less now. "They felt that their teacher's emotional problems would somehow obliterate everything good he did in class."

"Damn." Greg lamented, "It's sad. " He felt a sudden compassion for Dr. Garrison, but mostly for his boss. Grissom _had loved_ someone and then he'd been all alone for years. How could anyone survive like that?

Greg gulped before slowly putting an arm around his boss' shoulders. Grissom looked sideways again.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you think?" replied Greg, gently.

"Greg?" he hesitated, "You're not drunk, are you?"

"No." Greg said patiently, "I'm only trying to comfort you." Then he added as an afterthought, "Do _you_ want to get drunk?"

"No." Grissom glared.

"Hey, it's ok," he said, "Some people drink to deal with their grief, that's all. I can call room service and -"

"No, thanks." Grissom said dryly.

"Fine," Greg said, patiently. But when he tried to wrap his other arm around him, Grissom stiffened. "Relax, Grissom." He said soothingly, "It's just a manly embrace." He smiled, "We're friends, right?" he asked, "I'm just going to hold you for a while-"

Greg had both arms around his boss now, and he took a deep breath, bracing himself to comfort a bawling Grissom.

But nothing happened. Grissom didn't cry. He didn't move either; he merely let Greg hold him.

It was like embracing a life-size doll.

"Jesus, boss." Greg said after a while, "When was the last time anybody held you?"

Grissom couldn't remember the last time he'd been held by anyone who _mattered_ to him, and that was the problem. He didn't know what to do. He had his fists clenched against his sides, afraid that if he moved at all, he might do something stupid –something that might put Greg off.

"So? Do you remember the last time?" Greg asked again, turning his face a little, his cheek fleetingly rubbing against Grissom's. The older man didn't answer.

Greg tightened the hold of his arms until their chests were touching. Reluctantly, Grissom leant against him.

Greg smiled. The old man was thawing.

"So, you hadn't done this in a long time, right?" Greg asked after a moment, and he felt Grissom shake his head. It was a 'no'. Greg smiled. "It's weird, huh?" he said quietly. This time the head shook affirmatively. "But it's comforting." Greg added.

Grissom took a long time to answer.

"Yeah." He said at last, the word muffled by Greg's shoulder.

Ha! Greg smiled. He patted Grissom's back reassuringly and pressed his cheek against his friend's.

He took a deep breath.

"Hey…" he said suddenly, "nice cologne, Grissom,"

"I'm not wearing any," Grissom said quietly.

This made Greg falter a little. Now _this_ was a first. He was used to his friends' scents; a mixture that included an expensive cologne and one or two of other less innocent scents:alcohol, cigarettes, or marijuana.

He liked Grissom's scent better.

There was something else: While most of his friends were fashionably thin –hell, some of them were borderline anorexic- Grissom felt solid in his arms.

This was definitely a new experience... and Greg loved new experiences.

He wondered if he could get away with something he wouldn't have tried in a million years-

He tentatively put his hand on the nape of Grissom's neck and slowly caressed it.

"Neck rub." Greg explained as soon as he felt Grissom stiffen again.

Grissom endured Greg's slow kneading of his neck. He was wondering if this was still just a friendly touch, when suddenly Greg's fingers strayed away from his neck and slid down his spine, making him shiver involuntarily.

Grissom didn't wonder anymore. Greg _was_ making a pass at him. Or maybe not. It couldn't be- There was no way he would do this, except-

Except that this was Greg, who did everything at least once. He was also a nice guy, bound to feel _sorry_ for his boss, right? His _lonely,_ _grieving_ boss. was almost like a cliché, really. And the worst part was that right now he felt so lonely, he would probably accept the offer.

"You smell good." Greg said.

"You feel good." Grissom said unguardedly, and he immediately winced and cursed himself for speaking out. But damn, it was the truth. Greg was thin but nicely muscled, and his arms felt just right. But it was awkward, all the same.

And then things got even weirder: Greg started to hum a song –a song that seemed very familiar, although Grissom couldn't name it at first.

"What's that?" Grissom asked softly, his lips touching Greg's cotton-covered shoulder.

"It's one of the old songs you were all so sentimental about, tonight." Greg replied, "But with my personal touch," He hummed the song again and then he added a word to the melody, "_Baaaaby_-"

Grissom frowned.

"Are you singing a lullaby, Greg?"

Greg chuckled softly.

"_Baaaaaaaby,"_ he sang, stretching the word again.

_I can't hold it much longer  
It's getting stronger and stronger  
And when I get that feeling  
I want sexual healing-_

Grissom snorted and pulled back to look at Greg.

"That's _not _a lullaby." He said dryly.

"Nope." Greg said placidly. "But it's true, you know." He added, "It heals."

Grissom gulped.

"Greg," Grissom started, "I know you're trying to do something nice for me, but this is…"

"No big deal," Greg finished. "Grissom, it's not, really. I mean, it's just… an outlet." He shrugged slightly, "That's the great thing about this. With guys, I mean. You just do your thing, I do my thing, we hold onto each other… It's selfish, it's hard and fast… and it's good. It relaxes you… it helps you forget." He looked at him in the eye, "Oblivion, Grissom. How does that sound?"

Grissom tried to joke.

"You'd do anything for a chance to sleep in that bed."

"Hey, I resent that," Greg said, pretending indignation. "I'd do anything to _comfort_ a friend"

Grissom knew that was true; Greg would probably lie on that bed and open his arms and let him do whatever he wanted, in the name of friendship.

"Look," he started, "I'm not good at this-"

"I don't believe that." Greg said gently, "You're good at everything you do."

"I mean it, Greg." Grissom said reluctantly. He was going to say that he sucked at it, but he was sure those words would only get a lewd response from Greg. But Grissom _knew_ he was not good at it; he couldn't even bring himself to lift his arms to wrap them around Greg. There was however a part of him that desperately wanted to try. "Would you..." he said tentatively, "Would you kiss me like you kissed that guy?"

This time it was Greg who froze.

Grissom smiled faintly. Apparently, the answer was 'no'.

"I was kidding, Greg." he said kindly. Grissom completely understood his friend's reluctance.

"Hey, I'm game if you are." Greg said cockily, but his heart wasn't in it. He was willing to keep him company- hell, he was willing to do more than that, but kissing - He couldn't imagine doing that. Greg had never _kissed_ anyone as old as Grissom.

But he wanted to do everything else. It was not a big deal; he'd done it for his friends more times than he could remember. Whenever any of them lost a job, or a commission or a case in court, or when they were feeling down about something, Greg would take them home, make love to them, and help them transform their anger or their pain into something pleasurable. They had done it for him too.

"Come on," Greg said, releasing Grissom. He rose from the couch and started unbuttoning his shirt. He didn't wait for his boss to join him, he simply turned away and began taking off his clothes as he walked to the bedroom. He yawned. He was completely at ease.

Stunned by this development, Grissom stayed behind.

He didn't want to look at first, but after a moment he couldn't help himself; he turned and watched as Greg took off the rest of his clothes, and as the young man picked up the cushions that covered the bed and let them fall on the floor.

And then he got into bed.

Grissom considered his options; he could stay here, watching a show he had seen before, or he could follow Greg.

He turned off the TV and rose.

* * *

They arched against each other, frantically needing the contact as their bodies exploded in a shattering orgasm… 

Grissom kept his arms around Greg while they recovered their breath. He couldn't let go; he wanted to say something or do something that could express his feelings, but mostly, he needed to keep Greg with him.

The young man had no idea that Grissom needed to hold on like this; he usually rolled off his partner as soon as it was over, and that's what he set to do. He pulled away from Grissom's embrace.

Grissom opened his eyes when he felt the gentle push. Out of nowhere, a memory from his childhood flashed through his mind.

_When Gil Grissom was a five-year-old kid, he used a bowl of milk to entice a stray cat into his home. He petted the hungry animal while it lapped the milk; he talked to it and called it 'buddy'. And when the cat finished the milk, little Gil gently picked it up and tried to hold it in his arms …_

_Grissom would never forget the cat's screams and the way it clawed its way out of his embrace and out of his house. Grissom cried because the scratches hurt, but mostly because he had lost a friend._

_Later, his mother cleaned the scratches. She did not scold him- she knew children were curious- but she expected him to learn from this experience as he learned from all the books she bought for him. So, she explained to him that cats didn't particularly like to be held and that most of them would rather be out playing than inside a house. She signed the words clearly and directly, as always._

_But not once did she ask him why he'd tried to hug a cat. _

He immediately released Greg.

"Are you ok?" Greg murmured, completely oblivious to his friend's fleeting conflict.

"Yeah." Grissom muttered, rolling away.

It was unreal, sharing a bed with Greg. He had fantasized about this, but no fantasy could compare to the reality of Greg's presence beside him. His fantasies had always ended with an explosion of pleasure and sleep, while reality meant he had to lie there in awkward silence.

Greg briefly broke the quiet by going to the bathroom and returning with a couple of wet towels so they could clean up a little. Then he got into bed again.

And then… silence.

Greg didn't mind. He was happy to be in that enormous bed, and he was busy taking note of the comforts it offered: Plumppillows; soft, slippery satin, and enough space to stretch without disturbing Grissom. Really, all that was missing was the mirror in the ceiling. He would have loved to see himself in this big bed. Although a photograph might be even better… Maybe Grissom could be talked into doing him a favor?

He glanced at his boss, feeling a bit disappointed. He thought sex would help him get some sleep, but Grissom was very much awake. _Thinking, thinking… always thinking,_ Greg thought, smiling faintly; even during sex Grissom must have been thinking- of John Garrison. It was so obvious… he could still remember how Grissom had buried his face in the pillow and moaned his orgasm into it, muffling the words he uttered –John's name, maybe.

Greg didn't mind, except for the fact that Grissom still looked so gloomy. He was probably feeling sad or embarrassed or even guilty about having sex while his friend's ashes were just a few meters away. Greg shook his head; Grissom should learn to see things from the proper perspective now and then. He cleared his throat hoping to get his attention, but Grissom didn't turn his way.

Greg smiled mischievously. He was going to tease Grissom out of whatever gloomy thoughts he had; he'd rather see him exasperated than sad.

He stretched his arms and sighed noisily, trying to get Grissom's attention. His hands touched the padded headboard and he briefly mused that a bed like this should have rails to hold on to, or better yet, rails to be _tied_ to, while playing games-

'Stop it,' he admonished himself while pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind; right now he had gentler things to do. He cleared his throat again.

"You know, Grissom," he said casually, "that wasn't half-bad. In fact, I'll probably give it a high rating-"

_That_ caught his attention. Grissom frowned.

"A what?" he asked, turning a little.

"A rating." Greg answered, smiling cockily, "You know, in a scale of one to ten-" he paused suggestively, "Not that I've ever had a ten." He added with a frown, "The highest I've ever had is an eight and a half-"

"Maybe _that_ was a ten and you didn't know." Grissom taunted.

"Oh, no. I believe I can do better." He said, stretching his arms again, making a big show of it. Grissom stared. Greg looked good; the black sheets provided a nice contrast to his pale skin, and they moulded his body in all the right places. There was a shade of sleepiness in his eyes that was sexy and becoming. But of course, Grissom was too in love to think otherwise, right?

Completely unaware of Grissom's assessment of him, Greg spoke again.

"Do you want to know how high you rated?"

"No-"

"I'd say…" he said slowly, "I'd say that in a scale of one to ten-"

"Greg, I don't want to know," he warned

"-in a scale of one to ten, you rated -"

Grissom moved surprisingly quickly, and Greg found himself effectively silenced by his boss' hand.

"I don't want to know," he said, but he was smiling faintly. He knew that Greg was only teasing him.

"Mmmfffh" the young man insisted, and when that didn't work, he playfully waved his hands in front of Grissom's face, showing three fingers with one hand and four with the other, and then only two fingers in one and three in the other -

Grissom tried to grab Greg's hands, but the young man was faster and rolled out of reach.

"You rated higher than a five-" he said, "But not higher than-"

Grissom threw him a pillow, effectively silencing him. Laughing, Greg picked up his own pillow but before he could retaliate, Grissom lost his balance and fell off the bed.

There was a brief moment of stunned silence.

"Shit!" Greg reacted at last, "Grissom?"

He heard Grissom mutter something about 'damn slippery sheets.'

Greg crawled to the other side of the bed and peered down at his boss.

"Everything ok down there?" he asked good-naturedly.

Grissom, lying on his back, ignored him.

"Are you hurt?"

"No." Grissom glared.

"Oh. Good." Greg said tentatively, "Climb back here then; we've got to decide the pillow-fight championship."

Grissom didn't move.

"Need help, boss?"

"I'm fine." Grissom said with as much dignity as he could gather. "I'm going to stay here. The carpet's thick enough."

Greg smiled and Grissom couldn't help to smile back.

Greg looked thoughtfully at him.

"You're ok, Grissom."

"You sound as if you were relieved." Grissom noticed.

"Yeah." Greg nodded, "First times are tricky," he said knowingly, "you never know if you're going to end up with Dr. Jeckyll or Mr. Hyde."

"Have you ever met a Mr. Hyde?" asked Grissom, suddenly concerned.

Greg didn't answer. He was still staring at Grissom.

"You know, I saw a new side of you tonight-" Greg said, and he chuckled when Grissom reddened, "Ok, I saw _all_ sides of you tonight!" Greg amended, enjoying his boss' embarrassment; "But that's not what I'm talking about," he said, "I thought you'd be stiff-" he chuckled when he saw a look of indignation flash on Grissom's face, "Ok, ok, you _were_ stiff at the right moment." He said, "What I mean is that you're playful too. I even heard you sing, for God's sake-"

"I'll never live that down," Grissom scowled.

"_I want you_…." Greg sang tentatively, "How did the rest of the song go?"

"_I want you…_" Grissom sang, looking directly at him,

"_I_ _want you so bad babe,_

_it's driving me mad…_

_it's driving me mad_."

"Ba-ba-ba-ba-" Greg added.

They smiled at each other.

Greg reached down and briefly touched Grissom's face with his fingertips.

"You know what else I like about all this?"

"The bed?"

"Oh, yeah. That's definitely one of the things I like." Greg smiled, "But there's something else; for the first time I feel like _I_ can teach _you_ things." He paused, "For instance, have you ever had sex on the floor?"

"No." Grissom said, suddenly encouraged to sit up, "and before you get any ideas-" he muttered, "move over."

Greg didn't move.

They were face to face now, and Greg tentatively put his hand on Grissom's jaw. He gently rubbed Grissom's upper lip with his thumb.

"You've got a little mole here," he said softly. "I can't believe I never it noticed before."

He looked into Grissom's eyes.

"You're ok, Grissom." He said again.

Grissom held his breath as Greg leant forward and pressed his lips on his mouth, gently touching the spot where the mole was. Greg pulled back and smiled, the slightly crooked, cocky smile that was so uniquely his. Greg tilted his head and kissed him again, touching a different angle of Grissom's mouth this time. Then he pulled back again, as if he wanted to see whether his lips had left some sort of mark on Grissom's. But after the fourth time he did this, Grissom put his hand behind Greg's neck, effectively stopping him from pulling away.

They looked at each other in silence. Greg waited.

"Thinking," Greg whispered after a moment, "You're always thinking, thinking…"

Grissom shook his head to deny this. He didn't want to think anymore, and when Greg leant forward, Grissom did too, opening his lips for a real kiss.

… a kiss that didn't seem to end, until Greg pulled away.

"Breathe, Grissom."

Grissom opened his eyes; he had been so mesmerized by the thrill of exploring Greg's mouth, and so focused on the pleasure he was getting from it, that he'd just forgotten about breathing and holding back his feelings. He leant his forehead on the edge of the bed as he recovered, feeling Greg's fingers rubbing his back reassuringly. After a moment, he looked up. He wanted to say something meaningful-

"Did you know," he whispered breathlessly, "That the tongue's the strongest muscle?"

Greg burst into laughter.

"Whoa, Grissom, is that your idea of sweet talk?"

Grissom leant his forehead again, feeling utterly embarrassed.

"Hey." Greg said gently, "I didn't say I didn't like it."

They looked into each other's eyes, and then Grissom tentatively put his hand on the young man's cheek.

Greg smiled.

"So, Grissom…" he said, looking at Grissom's mouth, "Do you wanna get dirty?"

Grissom smiled faintly but didn't answer. It wasn't necessary. Greg simply moved over and Grissom climbed back into bed and into the young man's arms.

TBC

Thank you for reviewing.

Next… The return home.

Notes:

Brother Cadfael is the character created by Ellis Peters.

"You hold the key…" is a fragment from the song, "Get Together" by The Youngbloods.

"Baby…" is a fragment from the song "Sexual Healing" by Marvin Gaye.

"I want you" is by the Beatles.


	9. Chapter nine

DECISIONS

Oooh, wow…. I never thought this story would get so many responses! Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts. I hope this chapter measures up.

* * *

Grissom stood by the bathroom door, staring at Greg. The young man was sleeping on his back, sprawled in the middle of the bed as if he owned it, buried under the sheets and the comforter, and all Grissom could actually see of him from this angle was the tousled hair and one hand, lying palm up on the pillow.

It was 6:30.

Grissom leant on the wall wishing he could get back in bed and sleep for another couple of hours. Sleep and share Greg's body heat, and after that… Ah, there were so many things to do; innocent things, like eating breakfast in bed and reading and talking, and things that were not so innocent - everything that Greg had mentioned last night.

Grissom smiled and shook his head, amused at his brief detour into daydreaming. It was a little too late for that; the convention was over, and there was barely enough time for anything but breakfast and packing. In fact, for the last five minutes he had been trying to say something to wake up the young man, only to back off every time. Greg was having such a good time, after all; and after spending three nights in the chamber of torture (as Greg had called his little room), the poor kid deserved it.

But there was another reason for backing off. Grissom just didn't know what to expect once Greg woke up. Was Greg going to smile sleepily and pat the space next to him in silent invitation? Would he freak out at the sight of his boss? Or would he simply act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened?

Grissom refused to speculate any further. He decided to start packing, hoping the faint noises would be enough to wake up Greg.

The young man didn't even stir.

Ten minutes later, Grissom realized he couldn't put this off anymore. He leant on the headboard and spoke firmly.

"Greg."

Nothing.

"Greg?" he repeated a bit louder. "Wake up."

Greg responded with a muffled 'Mmmmgissmmh?', and a half-hearted attempt to move, but he soon gave up. The bed claimed him back into its warm embrace.

Grissom shook his head. This was going to be more difficult than he had thought.

And suddenly, a playful smile graced his lips. He realized he just hadn't uttered the magic words…

"Greg, I'm going to order _breakfast._" He said and was immediately gratified by Greg's response, a low 'Mmmmmh'. Ah, ha! "Would you like to try the _Deluxe _menu?" Grissom added.

"Uh hummmmmmm"

And nothing else.

Grissom frowned. Enough was enough.

"Greg, it's almost seven o'clock-"

_That_ made him react.

"Sheeeet!" Greg groaned, practically jumping out of bed.

"Good morning."

Gregturned. Grissom was wearing a white bathrobe, his hair was wet and plastered down and he was smiling faintly. He was holding a phone in his hand.

"Would you like the Deluxe-"

"Can't stay, Grissom!" Greg interrupted, frantically looking around for his clothes. Last night he had shed them as he walked to the bedroom, but fortunately for him, Grissom had picked them up and laid them on a chair. "I promised to have breakfast with a CSI from LA at seven-" he explained, as he put on his pants without bothering with underwear, "Oh, man, it's late!" he mumbled, "Gotta shower, gotta shave-" He grabbed his shirt and put it on, sparing a glance at Grissom, "Sorry, boss-"

Grissom had not moved during Greg's whirlwind of activity. He had not anticipated this, and for a moment he did not know what to do.

But he recovered fast.

"It's ok." he said.

"-I sort of promised yesterday-" Greg explained distractedly. He glanced up again, "Are you ok?" he asked, belatedly remembering that last night had been far from routine for them.

"I'm fine." Grissom said reassuringly. "I'm packing." He added, just to fill the silence that followed. He watched as Greg picked up his socks and stuffed them in his pockets, "Don't forget that our flight leaves at-"

"Ten o'clock," Greg interrupted, picking up his shoes. "I'll be there, Grissom-" He said, hurrying out of the room.

Grissom heard the muffled sound of Greg's bare feet on the carpet as he walked to the door, and then he heardthe sounds of a door being opened and closed… and after that, there was only silence.

After a moment, Grissom noticed that he still had the phone in his hand and, feeling slightly ridiculous, he put it back on the table.

In the end, Greg's leaving was for the best. Barely a half hour later, Grissom's old college friends invaded his suite, looking for their forgotten belongings. They chatted away, oblivious to the fact that their friend was frantically putting the comforter back on the bed, trying to cover up the tell-tale signs of sexual activity. The guys didn't notice, but his 'oldest' friend did. Janice didn't say anything then, and she didn't say anything during breakfast, although she enjoyed knowing that he knew that she knew.

Grissom studiously avoided looking at her, but he knew she would find a way to talk to him alone. Sure enought, as soon as theysaid their goodbyes to Pete, Frankie and Bernie, she smiled widely.

"Well, well." She said, "Someone got lucky last night."

"Yeah?" asked Grissom, "Who?"

"Oh, please," She scoffed, "You don't really think you can fool me, do you? I mean, your lips are practically black and blue," she laughed merrily when Grissom reddened. "Relax," she said gently, "They're not. But you just gave the game away, poor baby." She smiled, "So, how was it?"

"Janice-"

"Oh, God," she rolled her yes, "you're such a prude, Gil!" she looked expectantly at him, but Grissom didn't say anything, "Fine. Don't tell me. I have an _imagination_, though," She said, nudging him, "So, where is he?"

"He's having breakfast with a CSI from LA." Grissom said honestly.

"Oh."

Grissom shrugged as if to say, 'what are you gonna do?'

"Oh, crap." Janice said with a sigh. "Still…" she added, "it doesn't mean anything, Gil. Right? I mean, it's not like he's going to choose LA after just one talk!" she was voicing her own fears,and Grissom took pity on her.

"Hey," he said gently, putting his arm around her shoulders, "Stop worrying." He grinned at her, "Look at it this way: At least I got laid."

"Yeah." She said dryly, "I can believe in miracles again." She took his arm, "Listen, baby. If he stays and offers you friendship," she paused, "you will take it, won't you?"

"I will." He said firmly, though only because it was what she needed to hear.

"Promise me." she insisted.

He nodded. After a moment, he said, "Listen, I'm really sorry about last night."

"We're friends, Gil." she dismissed, "We can take anything. Besides," she added, "You've put up with my shit for years; I can certainly put up with yours."

"Yeah, but-" he shrugged, "I'd like to make it up to you. Your birthday's coming up, and I thought-"

"Oh, boy," she interrupted enthusiastically, "You're going to hire a stripper to sing _Happy Birthday_ to me, aren't you?"

"No." he glowered.

"Oh, please, do it. Pretty pleeeeease." She pleaded, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket "It would be like getting a little ray of sunshine in an otherwise dark world…" she said dramatically, "You don't know how lonely it gets down at the morgue!" she said mournfully, "All the guys I meet down there are just so… lifeless, no fun at all!" she quipped, and Grissom snorted, "All they do is lie on the slab and make me do all the work!" she whined, "All my relationships have met an early death-"

Grissom tried not to laugh.

"So?" she smiled expectantly, "You're hiring a stripper for me, then?" she asked, smiling expectantly.

"All right," he relented, "I'll see what I can do. But what I really want to do is to bring you to Las Vegas for a visit. There are several poker tournaments coming up, if you're interested. I'll get you a reservation at the best hotel-"

A sweet smile graced her face.

"I'd love to go." She said. Then her smile turned naughty again, "There are _plenty_ of strippers in Vegas-"

He rolled his eyes.

"You've got a one-track mind." he said, but he was smiling at her.

It was getting late and they had to part, but they didn't say goodbye; they simply hugged, happy and relieved that their friendship had survived.

* * *

Grissom arrived at the airport with a half hour to spare. He took out one of the books that had been given to him at the convention and browsed through it, but he couldn't concentrate. He was on the lookout for Greg. The time for departure was drawing near and people around him were starting to say goodbye to their loved ones. Others rose from their seats and walked towards the gate, in anticipation to the announcement. They wanted to be first in line.

Grissom looked around.

What had started as mild impatience was slowly turning to worry as Greg failed to appear. What if he had simply decided not to go back to Vegas? What if the CSI from LA had made an offer that was just too good to pass?

'No way,' Grissom told himself, 'he wouldn't do this.' Greg was late, and he might even lose the flight, but that didn't mean he wasn't coming back to Vegas.

Those thoughts seemed suddenly ironical to him. There he was, worrying that Greg might not fly back with him, when all along he had been hoping he'd find another job. He had practically asked Janice to take him off his hands!

'But not yet.' He whispered. Yes, he had hoped Greg would go away, but not yet; not today. They should have a chance to be together a little longer before returning to Las Vegas –before returning to the real world, so to speak. Grissom had looked forward to the flight back home because they had adjacent seats this time. He thought they would have a chance to talk and compare notes on the convention; even sitting in silence would have been nice.

Silently, but _holding hands_-

He abruptly closed his eyes, as if such an action could keep him from facing the truth, but it was impossible. He couldn't lie to himself.

He just didn't want to lose Greg.

"Damn-" he whispered.

Greg paid his cab fare and ran. He couldn't believe this. He was going to miss his flight and all because the hotel doorman had blatantly let someone else take the cab that Greg had summoned. Greg had apparently committed a faux pas by hailing his own cab, and he guessed he wouldn't get another as long as he stayed on that spot. He walked to the next block then, but there was apparently a shortage of taxis in the area and he had lost valuable time.

it was his own fault, of course; he had overslept and then he had spent too much time talking to that guy from LA, who had intrigued him because he was one of the few who didn't make a big deal out of his bleached hair.

Then he had taken time to thank the people who had offered him a job or a word of advice, Janice included.

And since she had also become a friend, he had spent quite a lot of time with her.

Neither of them talked about Grissom, but shewas less reticent about other matters.

"How did it go, your job hunting?"

"I got several offers." He smiled, "It kinda made me feel good about myself."

"But you're _not _going to Miami-" she said hopefully.

"Uh, no. I don't think so." He glanced around, "Have you seen Caine? I wanted to tell him that I can't take his offer-"

"Oh, don't bother-" she said gleefully, "I'll gladly hunt him down and tell him myself-"

Greg frowned.

"Why do you hate this guy?"

"What, _you_ like him?" she retorted, but Greg's puzzlement was genuine and she softened her tone, "Nah, I don't hate him, baby," She said reluctantly, "I just don't have any reason to like him. Look," she said, "A few years back an old friend of mine burned out under his supervision, and I tried to help her. In order to do so, I needed _his_ help. All I wanted was an insight from him-"

"Uh, huh?"

"Well, do you know what he said? _'The same happened to me._' I was worried about _my_ friend –his former colleague- and he was more interested in telling me the story of his life."

"That's cold." Greg said.

"Exactly. You're too good to work for him." She said firmly.

He had enjoyed talking to her, but by the time he said goodbye and ran to his room, he was seriously late. And he hadn't packed yet.

Packing his clothes in the gym bag had been easy; adding the mountain of free samples he'd picked up at the convention had been more difficult. And just when he had finally been able to close the bag, he realized he had left his precious award out. With no time left to unpack and pack yet again, he left it out. Now he was cradling it in his arms and running to catch a plane, hoping against hope that Grissom wouldn't be too pissed off.

He sighed happily when he heard the announcement. It was the last call.

Out of breath, but happy to have made it on time, Greg waved at Grissom. Unfortunately, by then Grissom's worry had turned to anger.

"Where the hell were you?" Grissom lashed out, ignoring Greg's greeting, "Don't you have a watch? This is the final call-"

"I know, I'm not deaf-" Greg retorted, and he immediately flushed because it was definitely the worst thing to say.

Fortunately for him, Grissom reacted like he always did when someone turned aggresive on him: He backed off.

"Get in line," he said calmly, letting Gregpass first.

Greg regretted his words, but being scolded like that after all he had gone through, had pissed him off.

And his mood didn't improve when they entered the plane.

"Damn," he groaned, "I got an aisle seat again."

Behind him, Grissom kept his temper under control.

"Take mine." He said.

"I can't take your seat, Grissom."

"Take it, I don't mind sitting in the aisle."

"Nah, it's ok-" Greg muttered, moving out of the way so Grissom could sit. "-I always get the aisle seat anyway-"

"Greg?" interrupted Grissom impatiently, "Just shut up and take the window seat."

Greg was going to say no again, but he suddenly noticed that his little tantrum had stopped the flow of people trying to get to their seats. They were becoming impatient.

Mumbling a 'thanks', Greg took the seat.

Grissom sat and calmly took out a book, effectively cutting off any attempt of Greg to apologize.

After take off, Greg took out his own book, but didn't even open it. He still wanted to apologize to his boss, but Grissom seemed so focused on his book, it seemed wrong to interrupt.

And then to make matters worse, Greg realized that he needed to go to the bathroom.

Since his failure to pass the proficiency test, 'going' had become a touchy subject for him. After becoming the butt of countless jokes at the lab, he had learned to be discreet every time he needed to go to the bathroom.

He held it as long as he could, but Grissom eventually noticed that he was shifting in his seat.

"What, now?" he asked, a bit peeved.

"Nothing." Greg said evasively, "It's just- Nothing."

"Greg, if you need to go to the bathroom, just say so-"

"You were reading," he retorted, "I didn't want to interrupt-"

Grissom rose impatiently.

"You're like a kid, sometimes," he accused, "Just go."

Greg went and came back, vowing to be as self-effacing as he could the rest of the trip.

But he couldn't just sit and read. Now that he had time to think of other things, he had to evaluate these four days. The interviews, the people he had met, the conferences, and of course-the fact that he'd had spent the night with his boss.

Greg glanced at Grissom, who was quietly reading his book. Grissom didn't seem to have a problem with last night's events, but Greg needed some reassurance on the subject. It's not like he was trying to make a big deal out of it; it was only sex, after all- but he needed to know for sure that Grissom was ok with it.

Of course… if he hadn't fled Grissom's bedroom like he did, then maybe they would have had a chance to talk. Greg glanced at Grissom again, and noticed that the older man had been staring at the same page for the last three or five minutes, as if his attention was focused on something that wasn't on the page.

He was even smilingfaintly, as if amused by something.

"What's so funny?" asked Greg, and Grissom blinked.

"What?"

"You're smiling." Greg said, and glanced at the book open on Grissom's lap. "What are you reading, anyway?"

Grissom handed him the book.

"_Serial Killers in the Nineties_." Greg read. He winced. It didn't look like something to smile about.

"It's an advance copy," Grissom explained, "I'm featured in one of the cases, Death in Las Vegas."

"Really?" Greg asked and browsed through in search of the chapter, but the pictures caught his attention first. There were several pictures from the case that Grissom had been involved in.

Grissom's portrait graced one page. His eyes looked huge in it; sad and all-knowing. Hurt. It had been taken right after the jury delivered a verdict of guilt.

"I remember this case." Greg said, "It was your testimony that got this guy convicted, right? You did a great job."

"And yet there were no winners." Grissom sighed.

Trying not to dwell on the gloomy side of their job, Greg deliberately quipped.

"Do you realize that your picture's right in the middle of the book?"

"Yeah." Grissom nodded, looking at the book, "So?"

"You're the centerfold." Greg said with a grin.

Grissom didn't know what to say to that.

Greg examined the picture again.

"You look great." Greg said, "In fact…" he paused, "I'd buy the book just to get my own copy of this photo," he smiled when he noticed Grissom's embarrassment, "Yeah," he added animatedly, "that's what I'm going to do: Buy the book, cut off the picture and pin it on the wall, right in front of my bed."

Grissom smiled reluctantly. Greg was doing it again, talking nonsense in order to lighten up the mood. It worked. It even encouraged him to say something he hadn't got the guts to say before.

"Greg," he said. He paused for a moment, trying to come up with the right words, "There's something I wanted to say last night," he said. It was true; he had tried to say something right after they made love for the first time, but Greg's talk of ratings had interrupted him. And after _that_ there had been no other chance. "You were right," he admitted, "I didn't want to be alone." He paused, "I really appreciate what you did. Thank you."

Greg stared back.

"You're welcome," he said after a moment. "My pleasure," he added, feeling a bit self-conscious.

Grissom smiled faintly and opened his book again.

Greg stared at him for a moment, but apparently Grissom didn't have anything else to add.

'So, that's it.' he thought.

TBC

Of course that's not _it_! The next chapter is coming up soon!

Note: The line 'the same happened to me' (or something close to it), was actually uttered by HC when the character played by Kim Delaney burned out.

I'm adding a chapter to my other g/g story, 'Dilemma'. It's about Valentine's Day, a bit late, right?


	10. Chapter ten

DECISIONS

Thank you for your kind reviews.

I tried to find out how long it took to fly from Chicago to Las Vegas but didn't get any information; I hope my time line isn't too far from reality.

Spoiler: Viva Las Vegas (the part about 'beer goggles)

Note: I did a little rewriting on this and the next chapter, on June 2 and 3.

* * *

"Thank you." 

Greg shook his head. He couldn't get over the fact that Grissom had said those words. It wasn't the words themselves, actually, but the way he uttered them -as if he really meant what he said. It was the first time that anybody thanked him like this.

Greg leant back on his seat. Sex with Grissom was turning to be more complicated than he had anticipated. Not in a negative way, of course. It's just that all of a sudden, Greg was making a big deal -he even wanted to _talk_ about it, for God's sake!

Greg glanced at his boss. Grissom definitely did _not_ want to talk about it; he probably wanted to put the whole convention behind him, and the sooner the better. It was understandable. Grissom was a very private person; surely he didn't relish having his life revealed like that.

Greg shook his head. So many things had happened in only four days… Now that he wasn't frantically trying to talk to every CSI on sight, or running from one conference to the next, he found himself going over every moment he'd shared with Grissom these past four days -from the time they arrived at the hotel, to their first fight, and from the first misunderstanding to their first kiss-

Greg smiled a little. After that kiss, Greg had fought the urge to speak –fortunately, because he'd been so nervous, he would have said something like, '_thank God! I was afraid you'd taste of moth balls_! He'd restrained the words, but not his body. Greg couldn't get over the fact that he'd touched Grissom, a man who routinely behaved as if he had an invisible shield around him. There had been no shields last night, especially after that kiss. As soon as Greg pulled Grissom back into bed, he had reached down to cup the older man's genitals, trying to coax a response. Greg was gratified when he felt Grissom shivering under his touch.

"You want this," Greg whispered into his ear, but Grissom shook his head regretfully.

"It's too soon."

"Come on" Greg insisted, "Come on-"

But Grissom shook his head again, and gently took Greg's hand away from his body. Then it was the older man who coaxed him to move, until Greg found himself lying flat on his back, pinned under Grissom's body. What followed was what Greg would have called a 'kissing fest'.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd kiss someone just for the hell of it. His sex encounters were mostly about getting quick satisfaction, something to fit in between other activities: Sex before work, sex before a movie, or sex before going home. Impersonal sex, even when he was with friends. Sex with guys like Tim meant bending over for them and vice versa. Not that he had any complaints about it; the sex was good, after all. It helped him relax, and sometimes it helped him face the long nights at the lab, and the dead bodies at the morgue.

As for sex with the man sitting next to him… Greg smiled. After the kissing, they had made love again, and yeah, Greg had taught new things to the old man, but he had learned things from Grissom too.

Greg looked out his window as he thought of this.

Last night Greg had learned to take the time to appreciate the person in his arms. Instead of looking for a quick satisfaction, he had spent a long time discovering things about Grissom, as they lay in bed, entangled in slippery sheets. He had been aware of textures and scents - Grissom's coarse pubic hair, his soft beard, and Grissom's scent –literally Grissom's, not something out of a bottle.

Greg was glad that he'd known instinctively what not to do at certain moments. For instance, he had refrained from uttering the stock phrases that he and his friends used: _'Give it to me, big boy, Oh, yeah, just like that! Harder, oh, yeah, oh, it's so good_- Greg almost laughed out loud now, thinking of what the old man's reaction would have been if he had heard _that_.

The smile on his lips turned a bit smug. Last night he had felt powerful. He'd done things to Grissom and made him _melt. _No more frozen Grissom, oh, no. Now he knew about a spot on Grissom's neck that made him lose control. Last night, after just a few kisses and a few little bites, Grissom moaned and came, hard, more from those caresses than by Greg's expert manipulation of his body.

Greg closed his eyes as he remembered …their bodies, slick with sweat, each one trying to dominate the other, but happily giving up control at the same time. And when Greg took over and found that spot on Grissom's neck… Greg took a deep breath as he remembered Grissom's immediate reaction. A soft '_oh_' that turned into a growl… a growl that suddenly exploded into a series of nonsensical moans and ended with a throaty _mmmmmh_ that had sent shivers down his spine then, and now. Greg sighed again. God, he wished he could hear that moan again-

Greg abruptly opened his eyes and looked down at his lap in astonishment. He had a hard-on, for God sake.

He couldn't believe it; this was definitely the worst time for this! He carefully shifted in his seat, looking sideways at Grissom, fervently hoping he wouldn't notice.

But of course he did.

"You have to 'go' again?" Grissom asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. "Are you ok?"

'_No'_ Greg thought, _'I'm not ok, I think I've got a thing for you_.'

"Do you want me to call the attendant?" Grissom offered. "She can get you something."

"I'm not sick, Grissom." He said evasively, rising from his seat. "I just drank too much water."

* * *

Greg's breathing was returning to normal. He looked at himself in the little mirror. He was flushed, but otherwise his face hadn't changed a lot. And yet, it was as like looking into a stranger's face. 

"Congratulations," he muttered bitterly, "You've just become a member of the 'Mile High Club for One'."

He leant his forehead on the cool glass for a moment. The good news was that from now on, he would not need to look at a magazine or use a toy to get a little relief. The bad news was that all he had to do was fantasize about his boss…

Greg carefully cleaned up after himself. The last thing he needed was Grissom smelling _it_ on him –and he could imagine the old man's reaction if he did: he would stare at him and lift an eyebrow. He wouldn't say anything, but he'd _know_ that Greg had just gone to the bathroom to masturbate.

It was bad enough that Grissom thought he had a weak bladder. Or a sudden case of diarrhea.

Morosely, Greg vowed to be as inconspicuous as he could until they got to Las Vegas.

* * *

When Greg returned, Grissom noticed the look of defiance in his colleague's face, and refrained from making any comment. He simply rose and let him take his seat. 

That was wise of him; Greg just wasn't in the mood to answer any inquiries about his health. Hell, he didn't even want to talk. He would sleep for the rest of the flight.

Greg's determination lasted until lunch time. Fortunately, airline food was a safe topic to talk about, and after that they found other safe topics too: The convention, Grissom's friends, and the fishing trip they were going to take together.

"Have you decided where you're going?"

"Not yet. Just getting everybody together for two weeks will take months of planning," Grissom explained, "But I asked Janice to come to Las Vegas next year."

"That's great! I like her."

Grissom looked up. Did that mean Greg was not leaving Las Vegas? He wanted to ask, but before he dared to, the attendant picked up their trays and handed them little plates with dessert.

"I feel like I'm back in kindergarten." Greg muttered when he saw the little squares of jello.

Grissom carefully opened his yogurt container.

"So… Did you get any job offers?" he asked casually, barely glancing at him.

Greg was surprised by the question.

"I got several."

Grissom nodded.

"Good for you." he said quietly.

"But I'm not leaving." Greg said.

Grissom looked at him. His heart was pounding fast and in his mind he was practically doing cartwheels, but outwardly he didn't show any strong emotion.

"What, you don't want to go to Miami?" he asked instead.

"Nah." Greg smiled, "Janice would never forgive me."

"What about the guy from LA?"

Greg shook his head.

"I'm staying in Las Vegas." He said firmly.

"Good," Grissom said simply, before turning his attention back to his yogurt. He was relieved. Hell, he was happy -happier than anyone could imagine just by looking at him. Suddenly, he didn't mind that the flight attendant kept poking at him every time she walked by, or that his yogurt tasted of vanilla pudding from a box. He found it hard not to smile.

Yet, after the initial elation, he had a couple of sobering thoughts: In order to have a good working relationship with Greg, he would have to make some major changes. He could not keep avoiding him at the lab, for instance; and to do this, he'd have to set aside his personal feelings. He would learn to work with Greg without thinking of sex.

_That_ wasn't so hard; but trusting Greg to keep mum about his secrets seemed much more difficult. Nobody had ever known this much about him; some people had known little bits of his past, and some others had known his body, but Greg now knew both. It felt like his life was in Greg's hands now and Grissom didn't relish the feeling. But the alternative…

He took a deep breath. He made his decision then. He would trust Greg. He didn't want to lose his friend and colleague.

After making this silent pledge Grissom opened his book ostensibly to read, but his mind wandered almost immediately. The words on the page just couldn't compete with the vivid images in his mind. Images and sounds. And smells, too. Grissom was thinking of last night again. He didn't feel guilty about it; they were still in the plane, after all. Once they got to Las Vegas, everything that happened between them would have to be filed away… but not yet.

Not yet-

"You're smiling again."

He blinked when he heard Greg speak. For a moment he had forgotten where he was.

"What?" he asked.

"You're smiling," Greg said, "You're reading a book on serial killers, yet you're smiling. Why?"

Grissom hesitated before answering.

"I was remembering."

"Remembering what?"

Grissom shrugged slightly.

"That I fell off the bed last night." He said.

And all of a sudden, Greg realized that Grissom had not put it all behind him yet.

Grissom held his gaze for a moment and then looked at his book again.

Greg cleared his throat.

"I'm glad, Grissom." Greg said slowly, and waited until Grissom looked up, "I'm glad that we- you know-"

"Thanks, Greg." Grissom said kindly. "I'm glad, too."

"It'll be weird, right?" Greg said after a moment. "At the lab?"

"No." Grissom said quickly, "Nothing has to change, Greg. Ok?" Grissom waited until the young man nodded. It was a reassurance that they both needed.

Grissom kept his gaze on Greg, briefly remembering how that same face had looked like last night -contorted by pleasure one minute, softened by tenderness the next. Grissom wanted to keep that image of Greg in the back of his mind –a guilty memory to conjure up whenever loneliness got to him. Whenever a ride in the roller coaster wasn't enough.

Reluctantly, he looked back at his book.

But Greg didn't want the conversation to be over yet.

"Grissom," he said solemnly. Grissom didn't turn, but he lifted his gaze from his book, "I just want you to know that... " he paused, and lowered his voice, "You can start over." He said, "I know that _he_ meant a lot to you, but… life goes on, you know? There's no reason why you couldn't be with someone else. I mean, it's only sex, and you wouldn't be betraying his memory. You're a nice-looking guy, and you could have a good time- hell, you could _give_ someone a good time. You should stop being so selfish, man," he said, smiling a little. Greg paused for a moment, but Grissom didn't say anything –he simply kept his gaze on the seat in front of him.

Maybe that was for the best. Not having Grissom's eyes on him made it easier for Greg to add, "I mean, I have to admit that if you weren't my boss, I'd be interested-" and he let his voice trail off.

This was where Grissom was supposed to take the hint and say something in case _he_ was interested…

But he did not say anything.

He couldn't. Greg had stated the problem perfectly; they were coworkers, in _unequal _positions. It was unethical.

"I hope you open up a little," Greg said after a moment of silence. "Find someone-"

"Thank you, Greg." Grissom said quietly. "I appreciate the advice."

He opened his book and stared at the pages again.

Greg took a deep breath and looked out. The clouds were lightly tinted with orange and pink –the colors of sunset. The day was ending. Soon they would be back in Las Vegas and once they got there, they'd simply go back to their roles as colleagues. They'd never have another chance to be together and do all the things they hadn't had time to do last night.

Greg felt regret as he thought of the things he still didn't know about Grissom: Did he sleep on his side? Were there other sensitive spots on his body that made him lose control?

'I never had a chance to suck you.' Greg thought, and for a moment he had the urge to say those words aloud.

Fortunately, he didn't. He looked outside instead, angry at himself for thinking like this. What the hell was wrong with him? He needed to get real.

No.

What he needed was to get Grissom out of his system.

* * *

They remained in silence until they were about to land. By then Grissom was frantically trying to restore some sort of communication. He didn't want this trip to end in silence. He had been raking his brains for something safe to say, something to lighten up the mood. Suddenly, he smiled. 

"By the way," he said slowly, "You never told me how high I rated."

Greg hadn't expected this. He looked questioningly at Grissom and smiled when he noticed Grissom's grin.

"Well…" he paused, acting as if he were really thinking it over, "I was going to give you a six and a half," he said, "But I felt you deserved some extra points." he added magnanimously, "After all, you didn't need extra stimulation to get into it."

Grissom frowned.

"I'm almost afraid to ask what 'extra stimulation' means."

"Well, you didn't ask me to pour hot wax all over you, for instance."

"That ought to be painful." Grissom frowned.

"That's the whole point," Greg retorted with a smirk, "Anyway, you didn't ask for it, and you didn't ask me to cover you with liquid latex either-"

"All right, I get it-" Grissom interrupted, but Greg was warming up to the subject.

"You didn't ask me to wear a dog collar-" He added, chuckling as Grissom's expression told him what he thought of _that_, "And _you _didn't need to wear the collar or leather underwear-"

"That's more information that I needed," Grissom snorted and Greg chuckled.

The light mood lasted only until they left the plane. By the time they picked up their luggage, they were barely talking.

"Let me help you with that." Grissom said, taking the award from Greg's hands. It was only fair, since Greg had offered to carry the photo albums for him.

They walked side by side towards the exit; slowly, as if they were trying to delay their going back to the real world. Too soon they found themselves on the sidewalk, waiting in line for a taxi.

Grissom glanced at Greg, silently wishing the young man would come up with some idea, some excuse to keep real life from intruding so soon. Greg looked at him expectantly, as if he were wishing the same.

"Do you have to go to work tonight?" Greg asked.

"No," he said, "I don't think so."

He did not want to go to the lab and resume his role as CSI Gil Grissom. All he wanted was to hang on to his role as Greg's friend for a little longer, but he didn't know how to accomplish this.

"Do you want to split a cab?" he asked impulsively. He winced as soon as the words escaped his mouth. Sharing a cab was an incredibly stupid suggestion since they both lived on opposite sides of the city.

Greg didn't point this out.

"Sure." he said. He was actually relieved that Grissom had found a way to keep them together for a while.

They didn't want to part, but neither would say it out loud.

The worst part was that the rest of the world seemed to be conspiring against them. The flight had arrived on time, they had picked up their luggage without any trouble, and they quickly got a cab.

And traffic was so light, they were soon mere blocks from Greg's building.

They were staring ahead.

"Are you hungry, Grissom?" Greg asked suddenly. He didn't wait for an answer, "Because if you are…" he added quickly, "there's a great Italian restaurant close to my place. We could eat-"

They looked at each other in the eye and suddenly, Grissom knew that food was only one of the things he was being offered. And he knew that Greg knew that he knew.

Grissom's heart beat faster.

_He knows that I know-_

He told himself to stop thinking.

"Sounds good." He said.

They got off the cab in front of Greg's building.

"So," Greg said as soon as the cab left, "Are you in the mood for pasta? The restaurant is just around the corner." he glanced at Grissom and almost laughed out loud when he saw his boss's expression of disappointment. He smiled. "Or…" he paused, "We can go to my apartment and order from there."

Grissom kept his strong emotions under control; he only nodded.

"That sounds better." he said.

TBC


	11. Chapter eleven

DECISIONS

Note: There's a scene in 'Burked' where Greg mentions something about getting drugs into your system by using a suppository; I remember Grissom's look after he hears this –as if he's wondering whether Greg's talking out of personal experience…

This story was edited on June 3,2005

* * *

Greg wake up but didn't move; he was too comfortable. 

It was only curiosity that made him open his eyes- actually one eye only, since he was lying on his stomach, with half his face crushed against his pillow.

He smiled. Under the faint street light coming through the window, he could see that Grissom was sleeping on his back –just one of the things Greg had hoped to find out about his boss.

Last night they had skipped the food altogether.

They had kept a respectful distance as they climbed the stairs to Greg's apartment. Once inside, Grissom had only taken a casual look around, but as a CSI he was able to see a lot. His attention was immediately drawn towards the huge posters on the walls.

"What do you think?" Greg asked when he noticed this.

"It's like an explosion of colors." Grissom whispered in awe. He noticed other things, too. Greg's apartment had high ceilings, and there was a spiral staircase that lead to an area that seemed to float over the living room. Grissom must have realized it was the bedroom, because he studiously averted his eyes and concentrated his attention on the ground area.

"Here's the living room," Greg said helpfully, "And there's the kitchen -"

"The least used room, am I right?"

"Hey, I don't cook much," he shrugged, "But I have interesting furniture in there; the dining table is an heirloom from papa Olaf-"

Grissom took another step into the living room, and his attention was immediately drawn to the bookshelves. He was reaching for a book, when Greg gently pulled him away.

"Hey," he whispered in his ear, "You can browse later. Come on. There's a lot to see upstairs."

Greg led the way, muttering some vague apologies -he hadn't made the bed before leaving, four days ago; his sheets weren't satin but cheap cotton, and they weren't exactly clean- but Grissom had shushed him by pinning him against the rail. He whispered something into his ear.

Greg chuckled.

"Hey-" he mumbled, "That's exactly what I want to do to you-"

"We'll take turns." Grissom said.

Ah, happy memories.

Greg moved one arm, just enough to glance at his watch. He smiled and closed his eyes again. It was only midnight. There was enough time to sleep a little longer, wake up and make love again, talk, eat -

He fell asleep again.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Grissom studied the bedroom from his cozy spot on Greg's bed. 

There were more posters up here. They covered the white walls -music groups sharing equal space with beautiful models, male and female. There were more bookcases, overflowing with books and magazines; an old chest of drawers that looked antique, and wooden doors of what could only be a closet. Avidly, Grissom looked at ceiling but discovered -to his complete disappointment- that Greg didn't have a mirror up there.

With nothing new to look for, he reluctantly turned his attention to himself.

When he woke up, his first reaction had been one of panic because he didn't recognize his surroundings, but panic didn't subside even after he remembered where he was -the only reason he didn't bolt from the room was because he didn't dare move and wake up Greg.

He had calmed down after a while. He took a couple of deep breaths, telling himself to take it easy. He could handle this. He had vowed to, right? He had promised not to jeopardize his working relationship with Greg, and that included acting cool while he was in his colleague's bed.

He had made a mistake last night. He had come to Greg's place out of loneliness, and out of curiosity; but mostly, because he thought that making love to Greg again would somehow lessen the memory of that first time. Well, it hadn't. Now that he knew that every time could be as good as the first, he felt regret. He'd miss all this.

The hardest part would be working side by side, acting as if nothing out the ordinary had happened. It would be impossible to forget all this; after last night, he realized he knew too much about Greg -too much and yet not enough to stop from craving him. Just enough to know that from now and on he would not be able to listen impassively as Greg talked about beer goggles and dates and parties. And what about Greg's tendency to flirt with everyone at the lab?

Grissom rubbed his face with one hand. Life was going to be hell from now on-

"Hey."

Greg's voice, hoarse and sleepy, interrupted his musings.

Grissom lowered his hands and greeted him as amiably as he could.

"Hey."

Greg stretched one arm until he reached the bedside lamp.

"You ok?" he asked as he turned it on.

_He's asked me that every time we've had sex._ Grissom mused. _Maybe he's afraid that my heart won't take it._

"I'm fine." Grissom said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice, "But I still feel like I'm on the plane-"

"Hey, do you want anything?" Greg offered, "Water? Something to eat?"

"Water would be good."

"I'll get it," Greg said, a bit relieved; as far as he knew there was plenty of water but no food in his apartment.

Grissom stared as Greg got out of bed and disappeared down the stairs. For a moment, the only sounds in the loft were made by Greg as he walked barefooted on the wood floor downstairs.

Grissom sat up when his friend returned with two bottles of water and a round tin. Greg moved easily, completely oblivious to the fact that he was naked.

"I forgot I had these," he said, "Want some cookies? ."

He handed the tin to Grissom and practically jumped back into bed.

"They're huge," Grissom frowned when he opened the tin.

"The nuts?" Greg asked, teasingly. "Oh, you mean the ones in the cookies-" He added with a grin.

Grissom smiled despite himself.

"My grandmother bakes these," Greg explained, "She sends me a box once a month."

They sat in bed, eating the oatmeal cookies in silence, and glancing at each other now and then.

After eating the last cookie, Greg propped his pillow against the headboard and leant back on it. He sighed and stretched, completely at ease. Grissom tried not to, but he couldn't help staring. There wasn't enough light to see everything, but what he saw was enough- pale skin, hard muscle, faint bruises-

It wasn't until his gaze reached the young man's face that he realized Greg had been watching him all along.

Embarrassed, Grissom fished around for something to say.

"I thought you'd have a mirror up there." he said, pointing at the ceiling.

Greg looked up.

"Nah." He chuckled, "I did try, but they're too expensive. Besides, this building is really old, Grissom. It vibrates even when a _bicycle_ passes by-" He smiled.

They were in silence again, and ironically, it was Grissom who was frantically thinking of something to say. He firmly got that urge under control, since the only reasonable thing to say right now was, _"I better go,"_ but he didn't want to do that either. He remained quiet, until-

"I used to wonder about you." he said.

"Wonder?" Greg frowned.

"Yeah," he nodded, "Actually, you got me worried a couple of times."

Greg looked questioningly at him.

"You were worried about me being gay?"

"Actually had no clue about that;" Grissom admitted sheepishly, "No, it was something else; I always felt you knew a little too much about drug use and kinky sex."

Greg snorted.

"Ah, yes." he chuckled, "I did notice that I made you uncomfortable, more than once-"

"I kept wondering if you had actually done all those things-" Grissom admitted.

"Well… Some of it was hearsay." Greg admitted slowly, "Late night confessions from friends-"

"And some of it wasn't hearsay." Grissom finished.

Greg shrugged slightly.

"I was curious." Greg admitted, "I was a late bloomer," he shrugged, "I wanted to taste life."

"A late bloomer?" he frowned, "_You_?"

"Yep," Greg nodded. He noticed Grissom's incredulous look, "Hey, I didn't always look this good," he said with a grin, "there was a time in my life when I wore braces and thick glasses and had big ears sticking out of my head, Grissom."

"Really?"

"I was pretty disgusting," Greg said, "I looked like the ultimate geek until I got laser surgery on my eyes and a little nip and tuck in my ears."

"Nip and tuck?"

"Hey, nothing radical," he insisted, "Just enough to, you know, make me feel more confident-"

"And once you felt more confident…"

"I tried to make up for lost time," Greg finished. "It was a crazy time, Grissom" he said smugly, "I tried everything once, just as you said."

Grissom studied Greg's face for a long time.

"Until you met Mr. Hyde." he said with surprising insight.

Greg froze. His face didn't register any change, but that in itself was enough for Grissom to know he was right. He felt anger and sorrow, all at once. He couldn't bear to think that someone could hurt his friend.

Grissom leant forward and kissed him lightly.

"I'm sorry." He whispered.

They looked at each other for a moment, and then Grissom kissed him again and wrapped his arms around him.

"It's ok." Greg said, trying to be dismissive, but he returned the embrace and held Grissom just as tightly. "Grissom," he said before kissing his boss' neck. "Grissom-"

Greg didn't know why he kept whispering the name as they made love again.

The next time they woke up, the sun was already up. Grissom was lying on his back again, but this time he wouldn't have bolted out of bed even if he had wanted to –he had his arms full. Greg was sprawled on top.

Grissom was lazily caressing him –one hand drew slow circles on the young man's back while he the other remained buried in the spiky hair.

He knew the minute Greg woke up, simply by the change in his breathing.

"Hey, Greg?" he muttered, "Did you know there's a spider's web up there in your ceiling?"

"Yep." Greg muttered, his words muffled by Grissom's chest, "That little guy deserves a home."

Grissom closed his eyes. 'Give me a reason not to love you.' He silently pleaded. So far, everything Greg did seemed to pull him deeper in.

He opened his eyes after a moment.

"You'll really have to wash these sheets now." He said.

Greg laughed. Yeah, the sheets were truly smelly now.

"I will," he mumbled, "Just not now."

Grissom took a deep breath. God, he was going to miss this. Not just the sex, but the easy camaraderie and Greg's openness. Something about the young man inspired him to be open too; open and loving. He took a deep breath again.

Greg lifted his head.

"Hey, do you want me to move?"

"No." Grissom said, holding him in place.

Greg looked intently at Grissom. Sunlight was pouring through the window now, giving him a chance to examine every inch of his boss' face.

Grissom calmly accepted the scrutiny, even though he knew that the sunlight would probably draw attention to every wrinkle, every white hair, and every flaw.

Greg smiled.

"You have nice lips." Was what he said, taking his boss by surprise. Greg grinned, "Wow, Grissom," he said, "I'd never seen a fifty-year old man blush."

Greg continued his perusal until he noticed a purple spot on Grissom's neck, "Oops," he muttered, "_Someone _got carried away last night," he said, gingerly touching the sensitive skin.

"That someone was you," Grissom muttered, trying to look severe and failing. "I'll have to wear a turtleneck tonight."

"Sorry." Greg said, but he didn't look repentant at all. He smiled. "I'd really like to do this again, Grissom."

Grissom froze, suddenly alarmed - was Greg some sort on insatiable maniac?

Greg chuckled when he noticed Grissom's expression.

"I don't mean _right now_." He said, patting his boss' chest reassuringly. Then he lowered his voice, "But what about next month?"

Grissom's heartbeat quickened under Greg's fingertips, but he didn't say anything. He looked at the ceiling, as if he could find the answer there.

"Or maybe next week?" Greg added, looking expectantly at Grissom.

Grissom was too stunned to answer immediately. He looked at Greg, trying to gauge the sincerity of his words.

"Or tomorrow." Greg said simply.

"Greg-" he started. He wanted to say yes, he needed to say yes, but, "This is not a good idea-"

"Why is that?" he asked good-naturedly.

Grissom wanted to answer that, but didn't seem to find the words.

Greg didn't see any conflict at all. He liked Grissom and he was pretty sure his boss liked him just fine. Greg didn't see any reason why they couldn't do things together. Sure; yesterday he would have freaked out at the idea of having an affair with his boss, but not now. The sex was good, and that was all that mattered.

He was not even disturbed by the fact that getting Grissom out of his system seemed to be taking longer than he had expected.

"Hey," he said, "I'm not going to tell."

"That's not what worries me, Greg-"

"Then, what?" he asked, "Look, we could, you know, come here after work, now and then-" he smiled, "It would be something uncomplicated-"

Grissom knew better. Feelings complicated everything. True, Greg's feelings were not really involved, but his own were. And there was something else on the line here: their jobs. For Grissom, there was nothing more important than his job.

And yet… he couldn't bring himself to say no. Four days ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to say no, but now…

"I'm not telling, Grissom," Greg insisted. "Scout's honor."

Grissom snorted involuntarily.

"There's something seriously wrong about saying 'Scout's honor' while lying naked on top of your boss, Greg."

Greg smiled confidently -Grissom was melting again, no doubt about it.

"It's twisted, huh?" he smirked.

"It's sinful." Grissom nodded, but he was smiling faintly.

Greg's voice was low and seductive as he added, "But it's turning you on, right?"

"Yes." Grissom admitted sheepishly.

And then they both laughed.

TBC

Thank you so much for reading and reviewing


	12. Chapter 12

DECISIONS

Slash. Gil & Greg.

A new chapter, set four months after they returned from the convention.

Spoiler: Harvest (The scene where Greg tells Grissom that he needs to accept changes and that he should trust Mia's work).

Before you read this, please read the previous two chapters; I did a little rewriting on both, (no major changes, though.)

* * *

Grissom sighed in his sleep and the slight noise woke him up. He didn't immediately open his eyes, though. For a few seconds, he just lay there, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings.

He smiled when he realized he was not at his place.

He didn't need to open his eyes to know. The bed he was lying on might be just like his own, but Greg's body next to his made all the difference. Besides, there were the smells, and the tell-tale spots on his body that were still sensitive.

He _loved_ waking up at Greg's.

Grissom opened his eyes. He was lying on his side, facing the windows. There was a little sunlight coming through the blinds, and by its intensity, he knew it was about ten.

Slowly, he turned until he lay on his back and looked up at the ceiling. He always checked on Greg's resident spider, following its movements as it ventured out of its lacy home in the corner. Reassured that the little fella was thriving, Grissom turned to look at Greg.

The young man was lying on his back that morning, and he was sleeping soundly. Greg was capable of staying awake and alert for long periods of time, but when he fell asleep, he was really out, and Grissom liked it that way, since it gave him a chance to watch him closely.

_Greg-watching_, he called it; something he didn't dare do when Greg was awake -and even if he had dared, it would have been an exhausting task, since Greg was always moving and talking.

Not that Greg lay quietly while he slept either; he muttered a few unintelligible words now and then -words or whole sentences that made no sense- and sometimes his fingers moved as if he was dreaming that he was at the lab, performing some delicate test.

Sometimes he snored too.

Still, no matter what he did, the young man never woke up until a few hours had passed.

Grissom was just the opposite; he only dozed for half an hour and then he grew restless and got out of bed, no matter how tired he might be. Deep down, Grissom knew why.

It wasn't just the fact that he still felt like a guest who shouldn't abuse his welcome; the main reason was that he just couldn't match Greg's abandon. Grissom was afraid that if he fell asleep, Greg might do a little Grissom-watching of his own, and Grissom knew he wouldn't do cute things like muttering a few harmless words or snoring a little; Grissom was sure that he'd lie there, open-mouthed, drooling all over the pillow, or making all sort of disgusting sounds-

Grissom smiled ruefully.

He'd always be at a disadvantage; he'd never look as good as Greg –awake or asleep. Even the young man's moles were cute, for God's sake. So cute, that Grissom had invented names for most of them: There were 'The Twins,' two moles set close together on Greg's right cheekbone; 'Lucky,' a mole that was just above his mouth; 'Tear,' the mole just below his left eye… And so on.

Grissom smiled again. He had it bad.

He reached to touch Greg, but didn't. He let his hand hover over Greg's head and fantasized about the things he'd do if he ever got the guts to touch him: He'd bury his fingers in the silky mess that was Greg's hair; he'd wake him up and tell him that he _loved_ him (he knew how to say it in twelve languages), and then-

His fantasies never went further. He abruptly withdrew his hand and rolled out of bed.

That was the main reason why he didn't stay in bed: When he lay like this, so close to Greg, he turned into a sentimental idiot.

He covered Greg with the sheet that had fallen to the floor and went downstairs. He needed a shower.

Fifteen minutes later, Grissom wiped the fogged mirror and looked at himself. He looked as tired as he was; he had pulled a double shift but instead of going home, he had followed Greg.

Well, who wouldn't?

At the beginning of their –relationship? affair? he still didn't know what to call it- Grissom had tried not to come to Greg's place too often. Even now, four months later, he still put up a token resistance; when he said yes, he did so only reluctantly, as if staying at the lab or going home alone could ever be as satisfying as sleeping with Greg.

Fortunately for him, Greg simply kept asking –good naturedly, as if it was a sort of game they were playing. And maybe it was a game, Grissom mused; a game they had been playing for four months.

Four months. He still found it hard to believe they had lasted this long.

Now he kept personal stuff here – a toothbrush, some non-scented toiletries, and some clothes. He no longer picked up stray hairs from the bedding or cleaned every surface he had touched, like a bad guy trying to erase his presence from a crime scene. He cooked breakfast, now and then.

Grissom would never admit this, but he had been privately celebrating their monthly anniversary –nothing fancy, just a private toast to himself.

And why not? He was proud of himself. For four months he'd managed to be with Greg while keeping his true feelings to himself, and without putting their working relationship in any danger.

So far nobody from the lab had caught on-

Or so he had thought.

Grissom closed his eyes. He had completely forgotten.

It was amazing; his mind had blocked last night's events so he could have a quiet moment alone with Greg. It was denial at its best.

Well, he could not block the memory anymore…

Last night he had been working on a report when Jim Brass entered his office. The detective took a seat, made some small talk, and then casually asked:

"So, how was the game?"

Grissom looked up, a blank expression on his face.

"Game?"

"The baseball game." Brass said, "The one you and Sanders went to on Sunday."

Grissom was a good poker player; inwardly he was busily trying to remember what had happened on Sunday, but his face revealed nothing.

Brass smiled faintly.

"So?" he asked, "How was it?"

"The Eagles won." He said calmly.

"Uh, huh." Brass nodded slowly. "What about Sanders? Did he enjoy the game?"

"I suppose."

"Funny; I would never had pegged him as a baseball guy." He glanced at Grissom, "But maybe I just don't know him, right?" he said gently.

Grissom held his gaze for a moment and then he turned his attention back to his reports. He wrote steadily, and for a moment all that could be heard was the sound of his pen on the paper.

"So," Brass said, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"About-"

"About you and Sanders," he said.

"We were watching a game." Grissom said quietly.

Brass snorted incredulously.

"Gil, I know you." he said, "At least," he added, almost to himself, "I think I know you as well as anyone is ever going to." He looked up, "You never socialize with your colleagues, yet you were at the stadium with this guy-" he paused. He was speaking gently, trying to coax Grissom into opening up. He added good-humoredly, "I couldn't believe it, you know? Gil Grissom on a _date_."

Brass looked up expectantly, but Grissom didn't say anything; he simply kept on writing, hoping Brass would get the hint and leave the matter alone.

Brass didn't. The detective seemed determined to get some answer and Grissom's reticence just pissed him off.

"Now I understand why you gave him a second chance at the proficiency test." he said deliberately, getting an immediate response from Grissom, who looked up with anger flashing in his eyes.

"Do you think I'd do that?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm, "Do you think Greg would?"

Brass held his gaze, but he backed down eventually.

"No." he admitted, "You wouldn't. Neither one of you would." Brass paused, "But you know that's what people will think if they find out."

"I've never cared much about people's opinions, Jim." He retorted.

Grissom knew that was only partially true. It was one thing to have people speculating about his private life, but it was quite another to have them questioning his decisions at the lab. His reputation as a CSI _was_ important to him; and now Greg's reputation was on the line too.

Still, he didn't want to talk about it, and he reached for the next report. Brass gently moved the reports away.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he asked.

Grissom kept his gaze on the reports.

"We're talking about feelings, Gil." Brass said softly, "I'm just wondering if you're prepared to deal with them."

Grissom could have denied everything and asked Brass to leave, but Brass was a friend and his opinion mattered.

"You don't think I deserve a break?" He asked without looking up.

"Gil, I didn't say you didn't." Brass said kindly. "It's just…" He paused, "I don't think you know what you're getting into. I mean, let's face it; Greg Sanders is-"

"I know," Grissom interrupted, "He's a _man_."

"Gil, believe it or not, it's not the guy-guy thing that bothers me." Brass said, "But he's a subordinate -"

"I know."

"Then, there's the age difference-"

"I know."

"And anything you two do -"

"Whatever we do," Grissom said coldly, "It has nothing to do with the lab." _Or you._ The words were implied.

"Hey," Brass lifted his hands in self-defense, "Whatever you do behind close doors is your own business. But you're wrong, and you know it. This _has_ to do with the lab because your main concern in life is -and always will be- the job. You know next to nothing about relationships." he paused, but Grissom didn't say anything. "So, do you understand why I'm a little concerned here?"

"We've been discreet." Grissom said lamely. Evidently, they hadn't been as discreet as they should.

"Gil, you still don't get it-"

"Are you going to tell everyone?" he asked abruptly.

Brass was appalled.

"Jesus, Gil. You don't think I'd -"

"Just don't tell your buddies at the precinct." Grissom interrupted with a glare, "Cops love gossip and gay bashing."

Now it was Jim's turn to be quietly indignant.

"Now, wait a minute. You know me better than that."

Grissom looked down and took a deep breath. He nodded reluctantly.

"I do," He said. "I'm sorry."

"I never butt into people's private affairs, Gil." He said quietly, "All I wanted-"

"Jim," he interrupted, "I don't want to talk about this, ok? Whatever you saw on Sunday-" he shrugged, "It won't happen again."

"Sanders is-"

"We're going to be more careful." Grissom said curtly. He didn't want to hear Brass' opinion of Greg, and this time, the detective seemed to get the hint.

"All right," He said slowly." Discretion is always good." he added good-naturedly. He rose from his seat but didn't leave immediately. "Listen," he said, "I'm glad that you reached out to someone, pal. I just don't want to see anyone get hurt-"

"I'll be ok." Grissom said without looking up. He didn't want to continue this conversation and Brass seemed to understand.

"Fine." He said casually, "I just thought I'd give you some advice."

* * *

Now, almost ten hours later, Grissom still didn't know what Brass had seen. He'd gone over every moment he'd spent at the stadium with Greg, and he was sure they hadn't touched each other or shared food or drinks, the way couples sometimes did.

Frankly, a stadium filled with macho types was the last place where they would have shown any affection to each other.

But Brass' words had made him realize how naïve he'd been; he'd sincerely believed thatas long as they were discreet, no one would know. But being discreet was only part of the problem; only now was he taking note of some subtle changes. For instance, just the other day Greg had chided Grissom for not trusting Mia's work - something he probably wouldn't have done in the old days. And he'd done it in front of Warrick, who had been visibly stunned.

Were there other instances that Grissom didn't remember? And if there were, how long before their colleagues started putting two and two together?

He took a deep breath; he didn't even want to think about it.

Grissom wrapped a towel around his waist and got out of the bathroom.

Since Greg's bathroom was tucked between the kitchen and the stairs, whenever he took a shower he got a glimpse of the living room and its tempting couch. Sometimes he gave in and sat there for a while, or did a little book browsing.

That morning Grissom sat on the couch and looked around. He liked Greg's apartment. It was all there, on sight, with barely enough space to conceal anything. Grissom's house was the opposite; it had rooms, shadows, and locked doors that he didn't dare open.

Grissom smiled when he noticed Greg's Forensics award displayed among family pictures; it had been sent on a tour to Minnesota, where most of Greg's family resided, and it had finally returned home.

Grissom chuckled when he saw a coffee cup sitting on top of a bookcase. It had been there for a week now. He rose and took it down, but instead of crushing it and throwing it in the wastebasket he reverently put it on the coffee table and stared at it, smiling faintly. The cup bore the 'Antigua' logo, and he liked that coffee shop.

There was a time when Grissom bought coffee to go –black, with one sugar- and that was that. Now, thanks to Greg's influence, he was ordering beverages that had long names –names that contained one or two of the words mocha, mint, leche quemada, raspberry, hazelnut, higo dulce…and so on.

And he didn't buy them at Starbucks. Greg patronized 'Antigua', a small shop near his building, and Grissom had become addicted to the place. He liked the décor, the smell of freshly baked bread, the fruit pies, and the candy –authentic Guatemalan candy; guava curls, tamarind balls, and marzipan squares.

Grissom liked the shop because it was the only place where he and Greg felt comfortable enough to try each other's beverages and pies.

That reminded him of Brass comments. What had he seen at the ball game? Granted, Grissom didn't socialize with his coworkers, but why had Brass immediately jumped to the conclusion that he and Greg were having an affair?

Grissom wondered too late if the detective had been only bluffing. If he was, then Grissom himself had supplied him all the proof he needed.

"Not very smart." Grissom said ruefully.

Now he would have to tell Greg that Brass knew, and that they needed to be more careful.

He was _not _ready to tell Greg that they should stop seeing each other.

Grissom returned to the bedroom as quietly as he could, but he needn't have worried. Greg hadn't even moved. Grissom shook his head indulgently, and turned to pick up his clothes from the heap on the floor. He looked at Greg for a moment and after a couple of minutes he made his decision.

He would not tell Greg about his conversation with Brass. Those two were both bound to work together in the future, and Grissom didn't want to put a strain in their relationship.

Still, the subject would come up some sooner or later. Next time Greg talked about going to see a movie or something, Grissom would have to say no, and then he'd have to explain why, and tell all about Brass and his damn questions.

_Do you know what you're doing?_

Of course, Grissom didn't; how could he? All he did was take whatever Greg offered and give back whatever he could; it was as simple as that. Neither of them expected much from the other, either in terms of permanence or depth of feelings.

Grissom picked up his shirt and was about to put it on when he remembered another of Brass' phrases: _He's a subordinate_. At the time he hadn't paid attention to it, but now he wondered why Brass felt compelled to mention it, since being the boss made no difference-

He shook his head. Who was he kidding?

Of course it made a difference, and all the advantages were on his side: Being a subordinate kept Greg from asking more than Grissom could give. Sure, they had sex; but it was not the adventurous sex that Greg must have been used to, and luckily for Grissom, the young man was scrupulously respectful; there was no way he would ever come out and say he wanted to pour a little hot wax on his boss-

Grissom sighed. One of these days Greg was going to become so bored, he'd want to move on.

And Grissom would have to accept it. It would be devastating, sure, but -contrary to what Brass might think- he would not be hurt. He'd let Greg go, and-

But a new thought came to him. What if Greg didn't think he could move on? What if he felt that, as a subordinate, breaking off with the boss might endanger his job? What if-

Grissom shook his head.

_'Thanks, Jim,'_ He thought sarcastically. Brass had posed more questions than he could answer, and he had ruined what seemed like a perfect arrangement.

A sleepy voice interrupted his musings.

"Thinking… thinking…"

Grissom turned. Greg was smiling faintly at him.

"Morning, Greg."

"Hey, Grissom." He said, his voice husky with sleep. He watched as Grissom buttoned his shirt. "How come you never sleep over?" He asked.

"Well," Grissom said, "I would, but you usually claim the whole bed to yourself, so-" _'Oh, that's nice,'_ he thought sarcastically; _'I'm putting the blame on Greg, now.'_

He tried to amend that comment, "I have to go home and, you know, do some cleaning."

"Any plans for the weekend?" Greg asked, "I mean, besides cleaning and going to the lab."

"No." he said, "You?"

Greg yawned and shook his head.

"No parties?" Grissom asked.

"Nope. I'm staying home. I'm on call this weekend, remember?"

Grissom opened his mouth to say something and hesitated. He didn't say anything and instead turned to pick up his socks.

Greg noticed the hesitation.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You look worried."

"I'm not." Grissom said. He sat to put on his socks. He glanced at the young man, who was watching him intently. "It's just…" he paused, "It seems that you used to enjoy life more" He said softly. He looked away, "I feel like I'm-" he paused. He got up and reached for his belt.

"That you are what?" Greg coaxed.

"That I'm sucking off your youth, or something-" he blurted out.

Greg snorted.

"Hey, as long as you make me scream, you can suck anything you want."

"I'm serious," Grissom said, tucking his shirt inside his pants.

"I'm serious, too. I mean, I can't go to every party now. I'm a CSI," Greg said proudly, "I have more responsibilities-"

"Yes, but… That doesn't mean you can't go out and have some fun." He said, hoping that Greg would understand the hidden message: _Just because you're sleeping with the boss doesn't mean you can't go out._

"_I am_ having fun." Greg said placidly, "At the lab… and here." He added pointedly.

"Are you?" Grissom asked. He hoped it was true, because deep down he did _not _want Greg to go out.

Greg simply nodded.

And it was true; Greg really liked sleeping with Grissom.

He would never admit this aloud, but part of Grissom's charm was the fact that he was the cheapest date Greg had ever had –one who didn't need to be plied with drinks or dinners to get in the mood, or gifts to keep him from straying.

Greg also got a kick out of seeing Grissom change from the proper, buttoned-up CSI Supervisor everybody thought they knew, to the passionate, impatient man who bound up the stairs and practically pushed him into bed.

Sure, Grissom wasn't around every time Greg was in the mood for a little party, and they rarely went anywhere, but he did nice things now and then, as if to compensate for this. Sometimes when Greg went downstairs (long after Grissom had left), he'd find something that Grissom had whipped up: a glass of fleshly squeezed OJ, a fluffy omelet, or some pancakes.

Greg liked that.

Not that having sex with Grissom was uncomplicated. Sometimes they would glance at each other across the conference table, and Greg could swear they were thinking about the same thing –the things they had done just a few hours earlier in bed. That was frustrating as hell, for they couldn't touch or kiss or even talk about it while they were at the lab.

That was a rule that had been established early on: They couldn't touch anywhere but here, in this bedroom. It was something that Grissom had made clear the first time they'd been together. That morning, Grissom had gone downstairs to brew some coffee, and by the time Greg joined him in the kitchen, Grissom had a cup ready for him. Greg had accepted the cup and was leaning forward for a kiss, when Grissom rose his own cup at the same time, preventing him from getting any closer.

Grissom's gesture had been completely unintentional, but Greg had taken it seriously and had acted accordingly, from then on.

In time, Greg felt it was all for the best, since it help them keep their two worlds separate.

"So, I'll probably be seeing you, then." Grissom said, picking up his car keys from the night table next to the bed.

"Yeah." Greg nodded, "Hey," He said before Grissom turned away. "What about a cup of coffee on Sunday?"

Grissom's first impulse was to say no, but coffee on Sunday meant spending a couple of hours at 'Antigua', a place that neither Brass or any other CSI knew. Or they could spend an hour at the shop, and an hour here…

"There's a new flavor I want to try," Greg said enticingly.

Grissom smiled to himself. Greg would try the new flavor, while Grissom stuck to a favorite one; then they would come back here, and Grissom would taste the new flavor as he thoroughly kissed the young man's mouth-

The thought was enough to send shivers down his spine. He took a deep breath.

"Ok." Grissom managed to say, "Coffee at ten unless something comes up." He took a step towards the stairs.

"Wait." Greg said suddenly, "There's something I wanna show you."

"What?"

Greg crawled out of bed and leant on the rail that surrounded the bedroom loft. From there, they could see the living room and part of the kitchen.

"You said I was wasting my balcony, remember?"

Grissom glanced at the glass doors at the end of the apartment. There was a balcony area that Greg rarely used.

"I cleaned it up." He said, "I got some second-hand patio furniture -some chairs, a huge umbrella-" he smiled, "Maybe we could sit there now and then," Greg said, "You could do some paperwork, work on your tan-"

Grissom was speechless.

"Work on my tan?" he asked at last.

"Yep." Greg smiled, "Your face and arms are tan but your legs are milky white," he teased.

He looked at Greg and suddenly, Brass' warnings and all other concerns faded away.

"Great," he said.

TBC

Thanks for reviewing.

Note: Antigua Guatemala is called a 'living museum' because of its architecture. Starbucks buys some of its coffee there. And yes, the local candy is delicious…

Coming up in July: a brief look at Greg's Mr. Hyde.


	13. Chapter 13

DECISIONS

Sorry for the delay, but as I explained somewhere else, I lost most of my files.

Notes: There were two very interesting scenes this past season:

In '4 x 4,' when Sara tells Greg that she saw him naked, Grissom turns and looks concernedly at them. But is he jealous of Sara or is he jealous of Greg? I think it works both ways.

Then in 'Compulsion' Greg arrives at a crime scene, and it looks like he was at some party when he got the call. When he goes to the bathroom to talk to his boss, I have the impression that Grissom is somehow keeping him at a distance.

My slashy mind tells me that Grissom is jealous… Maybe he called Greg and someone else answered the phone? Maybe…? Anyway, in this chapter there's a brief mention of what Grissom's feelings might be.

So, who is Greg's Mr. Hyde? We'll be meeting him soon...

"Here," Grissom said, putting down a tray on the table. Apart from the cups of coffee he had offered to get, there were muffins, cookies, and a straw basket filled with candy. "Help yourself." He said.

Janice groaned.

"Gil, I told you I was on a diet-"

"Oh, I'm on a diet, too." he said, taking a big bite out of a muffin. He smiled at her, "Go on. Try the coffee."

She took a sip and almost swooned in delight.

"Mmmmh…" she licked her bottom lip, "They use panela, don't they?"

"Panela?"

"Raw brown sugar." She said matter-of-factly. "Don't you remember, those big loaves they sold in the markets? They used to make candy out of pumpkin seeds and panela, and-" she paused, "No, wait." She said, "You didn't come with us to Guatemala, did you?"

He was stunned.

"_You_ went to Guatemala?"

"Yeah!" she smiled, "We all went - Frankie, Bernie, Marianne –remember Marianne? We spent a couple of weeks hitchhiking all over there." She gave him a look of disapproval as she added, "I think that was the summer you spent working as Phillip Gerard's personal slave at the morgue."

She took another sip of her coffee, "Ah, this brings back such good memories…" she smiled, "Bernie and Marianne were still in love, I was going out with Donnie –remember Donnie?" She asked.

"Vaguely," Grissom admitted.

"He was blond and curly, and he had a beard-" she said, "He dropped out soon after we returned from that trip." Janice eyed the candy in the basket and picked a red colored ball. "Tamarind candy," She muttered, "I never managed to eat a single one of these; Bernie always finished them off by himself-"

"Careful," warned Grissom, "Those are covered with sugar but the filling is pure tamarind paste-"

"So?" she challenged and bit into one, "Mmmmh," she hummed as she chewed, "There's nothing wrong with a-"

And then she cringed, just as Grissom knew she would.

"Oh, oh, aw!" her face contorted, "Oh, man, this is-"

"Acid? Yes." Grissom said, enjoying her discomfort. "I told you."

But, contrary to what he expected, she continued chewing -chewing and whining.

"Aw, man-" she moaned again, her eyes watering, "My teeth will be so sensitive tomorrow-"

"The _few_ that are still your own-"

Janice gaped.

"That's a low blow!" she protested, "For your information, I still have all my teeth!"

Grissom lifted his cup of coffee to cover his smile. He enjoyed needling Janice; she took it and gave back just as good. He watched as she finished the candy.

"You shouldn't be making faces, by the way," he said, "It'll ruin the enamel they put on your face."

"For the third and last time," she said with dignity, "It's called 'peeling.' They didn't put anything _on_;" she added slowly, as though she was talking to a small child, "They removed the top layer of my skin-"

Grissom bowed.

"I stand corrected." He said. "It sounds gruesome, but I can't argue with the results," he added gallantly, "You look very good."

She smiled.

"Actually, that was not all they did," she admitted, "They also put a little collagen in my forehead and around my lips." She lowered her voice, "The doctors wanted to give me new eyes and 'duck' lips, but-"

"Duck lips?"

"Yeah, you know, very full and pouty. But I said _no way_. I still wanted to look like myself." She looked at Grissom and smiled mischievously, "I could send you the brochures. Anyone with a younger lover needs the full treatment sooner or later."

"Do _you_ have a younger lover?" he challenged.

"Not yet. That's what I came to Las Vegas for."

This was her third day in Las Vegas; true to his word, Grissom had invited her over for a two-week vacation complete with spas, poker tournament, special shows, and –yeah- a male stripper who serenaded her on her arrival.

They had seen little of each other, though; this was the first chance they'd had to sit and talk. They were at Greg's favorite coffee shop, Antigua.

Janice ate the rest of the tamarind candy under Grissom's amazed gaze.

"I've never been able to finish one." He said.

"Wuss." She muttered.

Grissom smiled. He never realized how much he missed Janice until they shared some time together.

She smiled back.

"So, baby." she said after a moment, "How have you been?"

"I'm fine."

"And what about Mr. Sanders?"

"He's late." Grissom said, glancing at the door.

"Uh, huh." Janice nodded, amused at how Grissom always avoided giving any personal information voluntarily, "_And_?" she insisted, "How is he? And don't tell me he's fine. I know he _is_. He's gorgeous, actually. What I want to know is how you two are doing."

"I told you." he said, "We're doing-" he hesitated, "_Fine_."

There was no better word, but she wasn't content with it. She rolled her eyes.

"Oh, you're so discreet, for God's sake." She said, "Anyone else would spill the beans at the drop of a hat and _brag _about being with Greg but not you. And _he_ is just as bad as you are, by the way." She added, "He talks about his job and about movies and books, but he never-"

"You've been talking to him?" he interrupted.

"Sure." She said matter-of-factly, "We've kept in touch all these months. But don't worry. He rarely mentions you, except to say you're _fine_." She noticed that Grissom didn't seem too happy about this, "Will you relax? I told you, he's very discreet." She picked up her cup of coffee, but before she could take a sip, she noticed that Grissom was still looking enquiringly at her. "What?"

"You're not still offering him a job, are you?"

"Me?" she was surprised, "No, why?" she asked, but she immediately understood, "Aw, baby," she reached for his hand, "Don't worry, I'm not trying to take him away! He's quite happy here." She said, smiling mischievously, "Whatever you're doing, you're doing it very well. How long have you been together, now?"

"Oh, I don't know, seven months?" he hesitated, even though he knew very well the number of months that had passed since that seminar in Chicago. If pressed, he could come out with the exact number of days too.

"I'm happy for you two." She said, "Happy and surprised. I never thought you'd last this long. I was so afraid _you_ would screw things up-"

"Thanks," he said sarcastically, "Your faith in me is staggering."

"Well, I just never thought you'd take the chance, Gil." She smiled gently at him, "You know what I mean. I was so afraid you'd never get over Johnnie-"

She paused but Grissom simply picked up his cup and took a leisurely sip.

"Are you over him?" she prodded.

"He's dead, Janice."

"That doesn't answer my question." She said. "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you told me you still have feelings for him."

Grissom stared back in silence.

"It would be understandable, Gil." she said gently, "I mean, he was such a huge influence in your life-" She said carefully, "And you were just as important to him," she added, as if she felt Grissom needed the reassurance, "I don't think he ever loved anybody else, you know? Right up to the end, it was _you_. He just couldn't handle the responsibility-"

Grissom put down his cup.

"Janice," he said gently, "Please, let him rest in peace."

It was a plea, but it was also a warning.

Janice backed off. She was fishing about for something safe to say when, to her utter relief, Greg entered the shop.

"There's Greg." she said, brightening up.

Grissom casually glanced over his shoulder. He pretended not to be thrilled at the sight of his colleague and lover, but the truth was, his heart always skipped a beat whenever they met after spending some time apart. They hadn't seen each other for quite a while, not even at the lab, and it had been frustrating for Grissom.

But meeting Greg like this was frustrating, too. There was nothing for him to do but watch as the young man hugged Janice and kissed her on both cheeks.

"You look great!" Greg said enthusiastically, and he even took a step back to look at her, "What did you do?"

"Oh, you know," she shrugged modestly, "I changed my hairdo-" She said, and then she muttered, "Shut up," to Grissom, who was ostensibly rolling his eyes.

Greg smiled at Grissom and for a moment he hesitated. After greeting Janice so warmly, it felt odd not to do the same for Grissom. The older man took the decision out of his hands. He merely nodded –just like he always did- and greeted him with his customary, "Hey, Greg."

"Hey, Grissom." He greeted in the same casual tone. "I'll be right back," he said, glancing at Janice.

She turned to Grissom as soon as Greg was out of hearing range.

"It wouldn't kill you to show a little affection now and then, you know."

Grissom ignored the comment. His relationship with Greg didn't include public displays of affection, but he wasn't about to explain that to her. If Janice wanted to believe he and Greg were having a full fledged affair, he wasn't going to contradict her.

Janice shook her head.

"Oh, for God's sake-" she muttered.

"What?" frowned Grissom.

"You haven't told him that you love him, have you?" she said accusingly.

He looked steadily at her.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Janice…" he hesitated, "It's just not that kind of relationship."

"Then what kind is it?" she insisted, "Enlighten me." She paused, but Grissom predictably didn't say anything. "Well, what about his feelings for you?"

Grissom glanced at Greg, who was talking animatedly to the lady behind the counter.

"He likes me," he said reticently, "That's quite enough."

"Is it?"

He smiled.

"Do you hear me complaining?"

"No." She admitted, "But is it really enough?"

Grissom didn't answer right away.

It was enough when he compared it to what his expectations in life had been; but no, it was not enough –of course it wasn't. He just didn't want to talk about it.

Still… Janice was his friend, and the only person he could really discuss this matter with.

"It is enough, most of the time." He said slowly, "But sometimes-"

"Yes?" she prompted.

Grissom looked down at the table.

"Sometimes he flirts with a coworker, and it drives me crazy." He admitted sheepishly, "Or he comes late to the lab, wearing a suit and smelling of cigarettes, and I- well, I just know he's been at some party, and-" He hesitated, "I wonder."

She hesitated.

"You... you don't think he's seeing someone else, do you?"

He shrugged slightly but didn't say anything.

"Well," she hesitated, "If you're not sure, then you could-"

"I could find out, of course," he interrupted, in a lighter tone, "All I'd have to do is test his sheets for foreign DNA, or check his body for any evidence-"

"Or you could simply ask him." she said dryly.

Grissom snorted. The idea of asking Greg seemed even more outlandish than testing his sheets.

"I can't do that." He said.

"So, you'd rather not know?

Grissom lifted his cup.

"Exactly." He said.

Greg came back. He had ordered a creamy coffee concoction and a piece of pie.

"So," he said, "How do you like our town, Janice?"

"I've been having a blast," she said, smiling warmly, "Last night I made about a thousand at poker."

"Really? You must be pretty good!"

"Actually, I used my feminine guiles," she said smugly.

Grissom snorted loudly, knowing it would piss her off.

"Shut up," she warned, glancing briefly at him. "You see," she said, looking at Greg again, "I was the youngest female at the table-"

"So, you tricked a group of nonagerian guys?" Grissom taunted.

"Go ahead, laugh it up," she retorted, "I was going to invite you to a sumptuous lunch, but if you don't want to share my ill-begotten gains-"

Grissom didn't say anything; he only smiled fondly at her.

"What about me?" Greg asked, managing to speak and chew at the same time. "Am I invited?"

"Of course, you are." Janice smiled, "You and your _boyfriend_, here." She said deliberately.

Grissom studiously kept his gaze on his cup of coffee. Being called a'boyfriend' in these circumstances seemed inappropriate at best and it made him uncomfortable. He wondered what Greg's reaction had been, but he didn't dare look up. To his utter relief, his cell phone went off then.

He quickly took the call. His face clouded over when he heard the message.

"I'll be right there." he said quietly.

"What is it?" Janice asked.

"I have to go." He said apologetically.

"But I thought your shift didn't start in two hours-"

"It's related to an open case of mine, Janice." he explained, "There's been another." He added, looking at Greg. The young man seemed to understand immediately.

"Oh, man, are they sure?"

"That's what I'm about to find out," Grissom rose from his seat, "I'll call you tomorrow-" he said to Janice.

"Sure, baby." She said. "Go."

Greg watched as Grissom gathered his car keys and his jacket and then followed him with his eyes until the older man left.

"You're not going with him?"

He blinked as if he had forgotten she was there.

"Mmmh?" he asked, "Oh. No. No, I'm not." He said. "This is Gil and Catherine's case."

"Oh? Is she working the night shift again?"

"No, we just made a temporary exchange," He explained, "She's helping Gil, and I'm helping the swing shift crew."

"Really?" she was surprised, "Gil didn't mention that."

"It's only for a few days."

"And this case that Gil's investigating-"

"It's a tough one," he nodded, "And now it's apparently turned into a serial."

"You should go and help, then." She said. "I mean it, baby." She added reassuringly, "Don't worry about me. I'll find my way back to the hotel."

"No, it's ok." He smiled. "Gil doesn't need me." That had sounded dangerously close to a whine, so Greg quickly added, "Catherine has more experience, anyway."

"Are you sure you don't want to go?" she asked.

Greg nodded and quickly looked down at his cup of coffee. He couldn't look at Janice in the eye; she was looking at him in that inquisitive way of hers and frankly, it was hard to lie when someone looked at you like that.

"Do you want a refill?" he asked.

Greg didn't wait for an answer. He went back to the counter and ordered an Antigua Deluxe, one of the richest and more complicated coffees they served at the shop.

He needed some time before he could face Janice again.

TBC

Why is Greg working the swing shift? What does this have to do with Mr. Hyde?

The answers will be revealed soon!

Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	14. Chapter 14

DECISIONS

* * *

Greg watched doña María, the owner of the coffee shop, put some ice and a scoop of coffee ice cream in a blender. She was a thin, wiry woman of indeterminate age who talked about 'Antigua, the first capital city of Guatemala,' as if she had actually lived there. She certainly talked about the earthquakes that destroyed it in 1777 as if she had witnessed them.

Doña María left the blender unattended for a moment in order to check on the cookies that were cooling on a rack. She put several on a plate and, smiling warmly, put it on the counter.

Greg leant forward to take a whiff of the freshly baked cookies.

"Try these while I fix the coffee." She said.

Greg smiled and picked up one. He knew what was expected of him. He had become a sort of food tester for doña María. Whenever she created a new cookie or a new pie, Greg was one of the first to sample them.

As Greg munched on a cookie, he was suddenly reminded of the first time Grissom had witnessed the ritual. Noticing Gil's curious stares, doña María had explained that she could always count on Greg for an honest opinion, prompting Grissom to smile and remark, "Yes, he's an honest guy."

Greg faltered a little as he chewed. He hadn't felt like an honest man lately.

"You're quiet today," the old lady said after he ate a second cookie without making any comment.

"Uh. Sorry." Greg said apologetically. "It's good." He said, "Just go easy on the ginger next time-"

Doña María nodded gravely. She made a mental note of everything he said and thanked him profusely in the end.

"Your coffee's ready." She said as she set the Antigua Deluxe on the counter. "And thank you again, amigo."

Greg smiled; she always acted as if he had saved her business by pointing out a few flaws.

Her warm reaction had always amused him, but this time it actually made him feel good about himself - something that hadn't happened often lately.

It made him pause.

Maybe he needed to give himself a break? These last days had been plagued by self-doubt over a decision he'd made five days ago -a decision that had led to his removal from the night shift. Even knowing that he'd done the right thing didn't make him feel any better -he still regretted not being able to help Gil.

But now he realized he'd wasted way too much time obsessing over this, instead on focusing his energy on the things he _could_ do, like helping Nick and Warrick while Catherine was away.

That's what he would do, from now on...

If only he didn't have to lie to Grissom.

"Oh, my God, what is _that_?"

Janice's dismay amused him.

"Here," he said, carefully putting the tray on the table. "An Antigua Deluxe."

Her eyes widened comically as she looked at the layers of ice cream, whipped cream and coffee liquor that filled an elegant balloon glass.

"This is huge," she said breathlessly, "Ice cream _and _whipped cream? You and Gil are definitely trying to kill me."

"This from a woman who eats barbecued ribs as if they were popcorn?" he teased.

"Bernie dared me," she retorted. She touched the glass, "This looks so pretty I can't bring myself to ruin it."

"Go ahead," he said, "Demolish it; I can always buy you another one just as pretty."

"Ha, ha." She muttered. She gingerly picked up the spoon, "Ok." She said, "I just hope my arteries survive the abuse." She dug into the ice cream with sudden determination and tasted the first spoonful, "Oh, mmmmh," she purred languidly, "I wouldn't mind dying, now."

They ate in silence for a short while.

"So," she said after a moment, "What is this big case Gil was talking about?"

That was the question that he'd been dreading.

"You'll have to ask him." He said noncommittally.

"Can't you tell me? It's not like I'm a reporter," she said, "I'm a _colleague_, and frankly, I need a diversion. Too much sun and fun will atrophy my brain cells."

Greg looked at her. Here was a golden opportunity to finally unburden himself... but he resisted.

"A gay man was killed." He said simply, "Tortured, actually."

"Oh," she said. She began to understand why Greg didn't want to talk about it. A case like this would hit a little too close to home. "Damn." She sighed, "When did it happen?"

"They found him last Thursday night."

"Was it gay bashing?" she asked softly.

"No, we believe it was just a date gone bad."

Janice looked expectantly at him, but Greg didn't add anything else. He picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip.

He really didn't want to talk about it.

* * *

That Thursday night had started just like any other, with the four members of the night shift meeting in the conference room for a brief review of the cases they were currently working on, and also to discuss their upcoming court appearances.

A call from the sheriff had put an end to the meeting; a car chase between drug dealers had ended in a multiple car collision and it required their immediate attention. This case had kept them occupied most of the night, until Brass called with news of a murder.

Grissom had left Sara and Sofia in charge of the collision and taken Greg along with him, something that had pleased the young man. He liked working with Sara, his usual partner, but he liked working with the boss even more.

He was bubbling with enthusiasm as they buckled up for the ride.

"So, where are we going?"

"The Holiday King Hotel."

"The King, down at fourteenth? I know that place." Greg said, "At least, I knew it when it was called The Paradise –a dirty, little place. It changed owners a couple of years ago and now it's being touted as a family hotel-"

"You _know _the place." Grissom repeated, as if that was the only part he'd heard.

"Yeah," Greg nodded casually, "I went there a couple of times. Cheap place, just right for guys with student loans to pay off," he remarked distractedly. "It _was_ cheap," he repeated after a moment, "I remember there was a scummy pool that looked like it had never been cleaned, and -"

Greg launched into a long description of the hotel as he remembered it, interjecting a few comments along the way. He kept talking until a casual glance made him realize that Grissom wasn't paying attention anymore.

Gil did that now and then –tune out people who talked about something he wasn't particularly interested in. Greg smiled indulgently. He didn't mind. It was just another of Gil's idiosyncrasies, one that he had grown used to over the years.

In fact, if someone had told him that Grissom was actually reviewing their last conversation, he would have laughed out in disbelief.

But it was true; Grissom had paid attention to every word that Greg had just said. His description of the hotel was interesting and probably useful to their case, but it wasn't what had captured Grissom's attention. No; what he couldn't get out of his mind was the fact that Greg had gone to that motel.

_Why_ he'd gone there and _what for_ were questions that had obvious answers: He'd gone there to get laid. But '_with whom,'_ was the one question that bothered him the most, for it was the one he had no answers for. It didn't matter that it was probably someone from Greg's distant past; Grissom still wondered.

He shook his head in disgust after a moment. He wished Greg would refrain from making comments like those. They were an unwelcome distraction and, worst of all, they made him jealous too -a sentiment he had always despised.

He couldn't believe Greg's words could stir his feelings like this. And Greg wasn't even doing it on purpose; he was simply being Greg: Infuriating, funny, and impertinent. The young man had made comments like those all his life, and the fact that he was still making them was a testimonial to their success at keeping their affair separate from their working relationship.

Grissom sighed resignedly. He knew he couldn't complain.

He glanced at Greg. The young man was looking at the passing cars, his head moving almost imperceptibly to some inner rhythm, a song playing in his head.

Grissom smiled faintly.

"Hey, Greg?" he said, "If you want to listen to the radio, go ahead."

"You don't mind?" he asked, reaching for the radio dial.

"Just keep it low." He warned.

By the time they arrived at the Holiday King, the press was already there, and the hotel manager's patience had eroded. He lashed out at the CSI's as soon as he saw them, almost accusing them of deliberately slowing down the investigation.

"…They say I can't talk to the press until they make an statement -which would be all right, except they can't make one until you guys process the scene –whatever the hell that means! There's a dozen reporters making all kind of assumptions about the place I run, my guests are pissed off at having to spend the rest of the night in the patio -some are even asking for a refund- and you guys are late!"

He glanced belligerently at them, but they simply stared back at him. "Any chance this will be over before the day manager comes in?" He asked morosely.

Grissom's answer, "We will do our best, sir." failed to mollify him but by then Gil and Greg were already walking towards a uniformed cop, who motioned them to take the stairs.

"That's one pissed-off guy." Greg mused aloud as they reached the second floor, "Why is he so worried about the day manager?"

"He's worried about the guests who're asking for a refund," Grissom said. "They probably didn't intend to stay all night, surrounded by police." Grissom glanced at Greg, "I think our guy has been taking in guests by the hour. He's afraid the day manager will find out."

"Ah," Greg smiled, "The Paradise is making a come back, then." He turned the beam of his torch to the ground. "Or maybe it's always been here." He added when he noticed the threadbare patches on the carpet. "The new management may have made improvements on the outside, but this is the same carpet I saw two years ago. No chance of getting a clear print from it, right?" he said, "The guests probably trampled down the aisle as soon as news of the murder leaked-"

"We're still going to try." warned Grissom.

"Ok." Greg said good-naturedly. He glanced at each of the windows they were passing by, until he noticed one whose curtain wasn't completely drawn. He peered in.

"Oooh, they still have those beds with the iron railings-" he said wistfully. He was going to add something, but he caught himself on time; this time he _did_ remember he was sleeping with the boss. He had never talked about sex games with Grissom, and this wasn't the best place to start doing so. "Nice." He muttered to himself.

Brass was waiting for them at the end of the hallway, right in front of room 210.

"At last." He said irritably. "I've been standing here, fending off the press and the night manager; at least David was on time-"

"We handle several cases a night, Jim." Grissom said just as testily, "We were processing a multiple car collision down at Dan Tanna's Avenue, when you called." He eyed the closed door, "What do we have here?"

Brass opened the door before answering.

"A dead male, tentatively identified as Arnold Monroe." He consulted his notes, "25, a computer graphics designer on vacation. He paid for a whole week in advance-"

"_Tentatively_ identified?" Greg asked.

"His face is a mess," Brass said. "Actually, the hotel manager _is_ positive it's him, but I'll wait until forensics yield a positive ID." He glanced at Grissom, "I know how fussy you are about making assumptions."

Grissom frowned at this comment but didn't respond. He took a couple of steps inside, followed by Greg and Brass.

The vestibule was in shadows, but there was a faint light coming from the bedroom. It seemed to beckon at him. Grissom ignored it. He always paced himself.

Brass spoke again.

"The cleaning lady found the body at about three in the morning-" He said.

"At three?" Grissom asked, "Does she usually do the cleaning at night?"

"She doesn't. The manager says he got a call around two-thirty; some guy told him there was some cleaning to do up here. He didn't use the hotel line-"

"So, the killer wanted the body to be found right away." Greg said, "Any witnesses?"

"The manager may have been the last person to see Mr. Monroe alive; he -"

"If it's Monroe," Grissom mumbled.

"The _decedent_ picked up his key at about ten, last night." Brass continued, "The night manager says he got a glimpse of a guy waiting for him at the foot of the stairs; a guest-" he paused, "- and an executioner."

"Is there a description of the guest?" Grissom asked.

"Ha, we should be so lucky," Brass said dryly. "According to the manager, he was, and I quote, 'Just a guy, you know? I pay more attention to the girls, myself.'"

Grissom scoffed. So the 'family' hotel was indeed going back to its sleazy roots.

There was a door to their left and Grissom reached for the knob.

"The bathroom." Brass said.

Grissom opened the door and glanced inside. It looked clean, but there were obvious splashes of water, as if someone had recently taken a shower. That person had taken great care to leave things tidy -there were no wet towels on the rack, not even a half-used bar of soap, Grissom noticed with some disappointment. People inadvertently left hair samples and finger impressions on soap bars sometimes.

After assigning Greg to make a preliminary assessment of the bathroom, Grissom continued his way to the bedroom with Brass in tow.

"Who else has entered this suite since the body was found?"

Brass glanced at his notes before answering.

"The manager, a patrolman, David, me-"

"Did any of them touch the body?"

"The cleaning lady swears she didn't touch the body and I believe her. The manager says he didn't need to take a pulse to know the guy was dead –again, completely plausible. The patrolman who answered the call says he didn't do more than taking a pulse, but we know these guys tend to do more than that, so I asked him to stick around in case you -"

"What about you?" Grissom interrupted.

"I kept my distance." Brass said evenly, while the look he gave Grissom implied how much he resented the question. He would have never trampled all over a crime scene, as Grissom should very well know. "I didn't touch the body but I did pick up this wallet." He added, "It was on the dresser. It's full of cash, so robbery seems to be out."

Grissom glanced at the room. The only light came from a lamp that showcased a picture on the wall and gave the rest of the room a yellowish hue that softened the garishly colored curtains and carpet.

"Nice curtains." Brass said sarcastically.

"They draw people's attention away from the cheap furniture." Grissom said, "Plus, cheery colors mask pesky stains that are too hard to remove."

"Well, no cheery color can mask _that_." Brass said, glancing at the bed.

Grissom looked at the room itself first. It was orderly and clean –too clean. There was no obvious evidence of sexual activity –no condom wrappers littering the floor, for instance- but one look at the dead man belied this impression. He was naked and lying spread eagled on his back, with his limbs tied up to the bedposts –a vulnerable position.

"It looks like the party got out of hand." Brass said.

Grissom didn't comment, he only stared at the dead man, letting it speak to him. The face _was_ a mess. It looked like the killer's intention had been to disfigure; the cuts on the face were deep and had bled significantly, but the cuts made on the body were clean and almost… ornamental.

Grissom frowned at this detail; it seemed to stir a memory. There was something about this crime that seemed oddly familiar and the thought nagged at him for a moment.

Grissom eyed the man's wrists. They'd been bound so tightly, the rope had cut into the skin. Had this man protested at being held like that? Or had he found it exciting? Grissom was inclined to believe that the man had submitted willingly, thinking it was all part of a game. Even the little patches of broken skin in the wrists didn't mean he had tried to get free; he could have got those while he was writhing in passion.

Grissom gently touched the head, looking for some concussion but he found none. He examined the man's mouth and found some threads of a silky material stuck to a pool of blood that had coagulated inside.

"Found something?" Brass asked.

"He must have been gagged at some point." He said as he put the threads inside an envelope.

"No surprise, there." Brass said. "No one heard any screams. Unless he was dead by the time the torture began?" he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. "David mentioned some purple smudges on the neck." He added helpfully. "Strangulation?"

Grissom glanced down again. Those smudges could mean anything; they could even be the result of an enthusiastic lover leaving a large hickey.

Self-consciously, Grissom touched a spot on his own neck, just to make sure that it was well covered by his shirt. Greg had marked him a week before, and even though the spot was no longer a deep purple, it was still visible.

"So, was he strangled?" insisted Brass.

"I can't say yet." He said and his tone implied that Brass should know better than to ask him at this stage of the investigation. "But he may have been near death by the time the cutting started." He looked at the dead man for a long time. "There was a case in San Francisco, four months ago." he said thoughtfully, "A man was found in a motel room; he was naked, tied down-"

"_One _case?" Brass interrupted sarcastically. "We've already had two in the last couple of months."

"Those two murders were messy, Jim." Grissom said. "There was blood spatter on the walls and even on the ceiling, and the men were slashed in a frenzy. But look at this guy; look at the walls and the carpet. There's nothing visible to the eye and no obvious signs of a clean up. Just like in the San Francisco case."

"Was that guy strangled?"

"No. He had a heart attack. He was dying and helpless by the time he was tortured."

Brass looked down.

"Another heart attack would be too much of a coincidence, right? I mean, a cocaine overdose could do the trick, but-" he shook his head, "What about the slashing? Is it similar?"

"The incisions were made with great precision, mostly post-mortem. Just like this guy."

"So, you really think this is a copy cat?"

"I'd have to study the evidence from the San Francisco case to tell you for sure." Grissom said, "But I don't think it is. The San Francisco PD handled their case with the utmost discretion, and as far as I know none of the key elements were ever made public."

"So we have a traveling murderer?"

Grissom didn't comment.

"It would be a good idea to withhold some information, Jim." He said instead, "Keep it under wraps, just like they did in San Francisco."

Brass looked curiously at him.

"If the case wasn't made public, how come you know so much about it?"

Grissom didn't answer immediately.

"There are forensic workers within the community." He mumbled reluctantly.

Brass was going to ask what community, when he realized Grissom was talking about the gay community. Jim winced, just like he did every time he remembered that now he knew way too much about Grissom.

It still made him uncomfortable.

It wasn't that he had any prejudices against Gil's sexual preferences –he didn't. Frankly, he was glad that Grissom had finally hooked up with someone, even if it was Sanders, who seemed far too young to understand what he was getting into.

No, the problem was Grissom himself. He just couldn't stand having others know anything about his private life, and the fact that Brass knew this much about him had put a strain in their relationship.

Brass had tried to talk about it a few months before but he had failed; not only had Grissom refused to talk, he'd retreated even farther away. Now they rarely talked of anything except the cases they were working on.

Brass still hoped to get a chance to broach the subject. He wanted to give his friend a little advice –not only for Gil's sake but also for the kid's-

As if on cue, Greg reappeared at that exact moment, interrupting Brass' thoughts.

"There are traces of blood in the shower drain," the young man announced. "It doesn't look like the killer tried to conceal it, but-"

He stopped abruptly when his gaze fell upon the body on the bed.

Grissom didn't look up.

"Well, it wasn't his own blood, after all." He remarked, "Be sure to label every piece of evidence," he added, "As soon as you're finished there, we'll start processing the body and the room."

Greg didn't acknowledge Grissom's instructions. In fact, he didn't even move. He was staring at the dead man.

Unaware of this, Grissom continued his examination of the victim's face.

"The killer remained in control almost through to the end." He said suddenly.

"What do you mean?" Brass asked.

"Well... this was not a frenzied attack, Jim. The killer took his time to make careful incisions on the body. But look at the blood on the face."

Brass looked down. The blood on the face had hardened in a series of thin lines. At first they had looked like gashes, but they weren't. It looked like someone had tried to wipe the blood away.

"Think of a kid who draws something and then doesn't like what he did." Grissom said thoughtfully, "Frustrated, he tries to erase it -" he said, making a sweeping motion with his hand.

"Is he showing remorse, then?"

Grissom didn't answer; he'd casually looked over his shoulder again and discovered that Greg was still standing there.

"Greg? We need to process this." he said sternly. "Today," he added for good measure.

To his surprise, Greg didn't move; he simply continued looking at the dead man as if it was the first time he saw one. Grissom frowned. Greg had seen plenty of dead bodies by now, and this wasn't even the bloodiest crime scene they had ever processed.

"Hey, _Sanders_." He said, louder this time.

Hearing his last name –a sure sign that Grissom was pissed off- did the trick.

He looked up.

"Grissom?" he whispered, "Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked, and before Grissom answered, he added, "In private."

Grissom involuntarily glanced at Brass, but the detective studiously turned to examine a chest of drawers. His silence spoke volumes –to Grissom, at least. In other circumstances, Brass would have teased Greg unmercifully, probably even ridiculed him for not taking it like a man. But Brass knew of their personal involvement, and so he didn't say anything.

"We don't have time to chat, Greg." Grissom said firmly, "Whatever you have to say-"

"I can't work on this case."

Grissom was taken aback. This was the last thing he would have expected from Greg. The young man was a consummate professional who took a fierce pride on being the first lab tech to make a successful transition to investigator. Something was seriously wrong.

"Is something the matter?" he asked.

"I'm sorry." Greg said simply.

Grissom hesitated.

He realized he'd been examining _parts_ of the dead man –the neck, the wrists, the head, the torso- in search of clues, while Greg was probably looking at a _man_, someone who had been alive just a few hours before. A _gay _man.

Greg had never let his personal feelings interfere with his work, but maybe a crime that had gay bashing undertones was more than he could handle.

It _was_ unprofessional, but Grissom understood; and if anyone but Brass had witnessed their exchange, he would have let him go. But it was Brass, and Grissom couldn't let him think that Greg could get away with anything just because he was sleeping with the boss.

"We're shorthanded at the moment, Greg." He said, "I need you here." He turned back to examine the body, "Take a breather if you need to, and then come back."

Greg opened his mouth again, but this time he realized that Brass was listening to every word.

"All right." He said.

"I'll process the body." Grissom added, "You take care of the room."

That was all he could do for him.

Greg did a thorough job processing the room, but a plan was taking form in his head all along, and as soon as he returned to the lab, he went to Catherine's office.

Greg knocked on her open door as a matter of courtesy, and this had charmed Catherine, who motioned him to enter.

"Are you busy?" he asked.

"Nah," she said, despite the pile of files awaiting her review, "Sit."

They had barely exchanged a few pleasantries, when he blurted out, "I need a favor."

"You do?" she asked, a bit surprised, "You do." She repeated, disappointment clear in her voice. "Oh, boy," she sighed, "You wouldn't believe the number of times I've heard those words lately. Being boss has its drawbacks, let me tell you." She fixed her gaze on Greg. "Well? What can I do for you?"

"I- " he cleared his throat, "I was wondering if-" he paused. It was harder than he thought, but he just had to say it. "I need you to take me off the case I'm working on right now." He blurted out.

She gaped.

"You, what?" she hesitated, "Why?"

Greg shook his head.

"I can't tell you why."

She put her pen down.

"What is it?" she asked, concern evident in her tone, "Is it Grissom?" he paused, "Is he giving you a hard time?"

"No," he said quickly, "He isn't, Catherine. This isn't about him."

"Then, why?" she asked, and before Greg said anything, she added, "Right; you can't tell me." She stared at him for a moment and then she shook her head, "I am sorry, Greg." She said slowly, "I can't help you there." But she hated saying no to a nice kid like Greg, so she tried to explain. "_I_ wouldn't like it if Warrick or Nick went to Gil behind my back and asked him to take them off one my cases-"

"I know-"

"I would be very pissed; not only with them, but with Gil too. Especially with Gil." She added. "Not that he'd ever grant them such a request." She scoffed, "It took him quite a while to get used to the fact that I'm his equal now, or that my guys are not his guys anymore; but once he accepted the facts, he-"

"Please, Catherine." Greg said quietly.

Catherine frowned. She had never seen Greg so subdued.

Maybe this was more serious than she thought.

"Greg, if you did something that pissed him off," she said slowly, "Then all you have to do is talk to him and apologize." She smiled, "Gil is a softie, believe me."

Greg smiled at that assessment of his lover but didn't say anything.

"I could talk to him, if you want," she offered, but he shook his head.

"We're not having problems," he said quietly, "I want to get off this case, but I'd rather not ask Gil -Grissom, I mean."

Catherine looked thoughtfully at him.

Greg needed a favor from her and to his credit, he had not once reminded her of the many favors that she owed him. '_For all time's sake,_' he could have said but didn't. '_For all the times that I stayed at the lab to work in one of your cases -instead of going home- just because you batted your eyelashes at me and wiggled your ass and blatantly flirted with me to get what you wanted-'_

Catherine blinked. Where did that come from? Evidently, her conscience was demanding that she do something for this kid.

"Greg, I'd like to help you," she said slowly, "But I can't just barge into Grissom's office and ask him to remove you from a case."

"I know," he nodded, "I was thinking… Maybe you could get me to work in one of yours? And then you could offer Nick or Warrick in exchange."

"But why would I do that? I mean," she added, since she didn't want to make it seem like she didn't want to help, "I _could_ do it, but only if I had a reason. If I did this," She lowered her voice, "I'd be putting my ass on the line for you; so the least you can do is tell me why."

"I just can't work this case." He said honestly. "The tortured _gay_ guy case."

"Ok," Catherine said slowly. "And why is that?"

Greg looked at her, silently willing her to understand.

"I could compromise the case if I stay." He added.

"Why?" she frowned.

"Because the case involves a _gay_ man."

"And?" insisted Catherine.

Greg stared incredulously at her. Did she need him to draw a picture?

But suddenly, understanding dawned on her.

"Oh." She said, staring back at him. "Oh. So…you…" she paused. "Are you…?"

"Yeah." He said gently.

"Ok." She said slowly. She looked expectantly at him, "And?" She added, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"There was a case in California," he said, "The Defense argued that since one of the investigators was gay, he couldn't be expected to be neutral in his interpretations. I don't want that to happen in this case."

"Oh, please!" she rolled her eyes, "Defense lawyers in California will use about any excuse to get their clients off the hook. It's different here, Greg."

Of course, he knew that. But it was the only excuse he could come up with in such short notice.

She stared at him in silence.

"Greg, being gay will never be an issue in an investigation," she said slowly, "But if you really believe it could be a problem, then maybe you should tell Gil. You know, just to clear the air. He'll understand."

Greg nodded in defeat.

She was not going to help.

"And Greg," she continued, "Sometimes we can't help feeling personally involved in a case. We're only human. I mean, _I_ hate to deal with cases that involve battered kids, Sara has a hard time dealing with cases of battered women-" her voice trailed off, "But we have to face those cases, eventually. What I'm trying to say is, I could get you off this case, but you'll have to take the next."

She reached for his hand and patted it.

"I'll talk to him." She said, "I'll tell him I need your expertise in a case, or something."

His relief was visible.

"Thanks, Catherine," he said. "I owe you." He added as he rose.

"Nah, forget about it." She said dismissively. "This is for old time's sake."

_For old times_, she thought as he took his leave. _For all the times I thought you were helping me just because I wiggled my ass and batted my eyelashes..._

Catherine shook her head ruefully and then she picked up her phone.

* * *

Greg didn't tell Janice much about the case or about getting Catherine to help him. Instead, he blurted out the one thing that had crossed his mind the minute he saw Arnold Monroe's body.

"It could have been me."

She put down her spoon.

"What do you mean?"

He shrugged evasively.

"Well-" he started, "That guy was only looking for a good time," he said. "It's happened to all of us at one time or another, right? I mean, have you ever met someone you thought you could trust but it turned out you were wrong?"

"Oh, God, yes." she said, rolling her eyes, "I've met dozens, and that's just counting my coworkers," she finished dryly. But she sobered up when she noticed how serious he looked, "What about you?"

"I have."

She stared at him.

"Greg?" she asked, "You're not sleeping around, are you?"

He frowned, not at the question itself but at the look of apprehension on her face.

"I'm not." He said cautiously, and when Janice's apprehension turned to relief, he understood what she was concerned about: Gil. "I'm not sleeping around." He said firmly. "But I used to. You know," he added in a slightly humorous tone, "When I was younger and bolder."

"And you met some bad guys." she said.

"Not really bad guys." He said thoughtfully, "Creepy, mostly."

"But none of them was a murderer," she pointed out. "Thank God." She added with feeling.

Greg smiled at her. After a moment she smiled back, only this time her smile was mischievous.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing." She said, "I'm just looking at you," she said and then she added, "It's so rare to meet a _faithful_ man." She said, "I hope your _boyfriend_ appreciates it."

He groaned.

"You're gonna get me in trouble, you know that?" he said.

* * *

TBC

Historical Note: Antigua was not the first capital city of Guatemala, it was the third. The first city was Iximché, and the second was Ciudad Vieja, which was destroyed when heavy rains filled the crater of a dead volcano, causing it to overflow. The city was buried under tons of mud.

After the earthquakes partially destroyed Antigua, the new (and current) capital city was settled in another valley. _This_ city was partly destroyed by earthquakes in 1917 and 1918, and then again in 1976-

Hum... I'm detecting a pattern, here...


	15. Chapter 15

DECISIONS

Janice asks the crucial question: 'Do you love Gil?'

And Greg believes that John Garrison is very much alive in Grissom's mind.

June, 2007: Did a little rewriting. Boy, if this chapter was any indication, I need to revise the others too.

* * *

"You're gonna get me in trouble." Greg said. "Gil is a very private person-"

"Is he, really?" Janice asked, eyes open wide in mock surprise.

"Like you don't know." He scowled.

Janice stared back for as long as she could, but Greg's penetrating gaze didn't waver either.

She rolled her eyes.

"Oh, all right," she said, "Yes, Gil _is_ a private person, and yes, I should know better -happy?" But before he could answer, she muttered, "He should lighten up."

"Janice-"

"And _you_ should lighten up too," she said, pointing at him with her spoon, "You've been evading me for months. I send you all sort of friendly e-mails, and all I get from you are book articles! It's not that I don't appreciate them," she added, "But I'd rather hear from _you_. Frankly, I've started to think that you don't trust me -"

"I trust you," he replied, "I'm just not gonna tell you every little thing about Gil and me. You're not exactly subtle, you know?" he glared.

She narrowed her eyes.

"Are you saying that I'm nothing but a pathetic gossip?"

Greg was taken aback by her reaction. He started to apologize but she raised a hand.

"Wait," she said, as if she'd come to a sudden realization, "You know what? _I am_ a pathetic gossip! So, in case you have something to say, I'm all ears."

And she leant forward and rested her chin on her palms, smiling winningly at Greg.

He shook his head.

"You need to get a hobby," he muttered. "Don't you have any friends, back in Oregon?

"I do. But the women talk mostly about menopause and osteoporosis, and the men talk only about golf. You can't blame me for taking an interest on my favorite couple."

He sighed.

"Janice-" he started. _We're not a couple_ he wanted to say, but he didn't. Instead he said, "Look. I'm not comfortable, talking about this. And I know you and Gil are long-time friends but I don't think he appreciates being reminded of the fact that he's sleeping with me-"

"Why?" she asked.

"Why?" he repeated as if he couldn't believe she needed to ask, "Well, maybe because I'm a _coworker_?" He said in a slightly patronizing tone.

"Oh, please," she scoffed, "You act as if no one else in the entire LVPD has ever had sex with a colleague. This may come as a shock to you, but those cops and lab technicians you work with don't have such high moral standards, believe me. Law enforcement is one big incestuous family; everybody knows that."

"But this is Grissom." he said simply.

"So what?" she retorted. But deep down she knew what he meant. She sighed, "Oh, ok," she said reluctantly, "I admit it: If someone had told me a year ago that Gil was having an affair with a coworker, I wouldn't have believed it. But that doesn't mean it's wrong."

"I'm not saying that it's wrong." He replied, "It's just out of character."

"Well…" she shrugged, "People change, all the time." She said, "Why not Gil?"

Greg didn't look convinced.

"Maybe," she started, "Maybe he is-"

She bit her lip.

She wanted to tell Greg everything about Gil's feelings -she was _dying _to- but she just couldn't betray Gil's confidences.

Frustrated, she took a bit spoonful of ice cream. She was no longer hungry but she needed the distraction.

She was beginning to see what being Gil's friend entailed, and she didn't like it: She was turning into a secretive person.

She resented that.

And so, she rebelled.

"Maybe he feels free now." She said tentatively, "Maybe John's death made him realize that one should live life to the fullest."

Greg didn't respond. He seemed absorbed by his own thoughts.

"Who knows?" Janice continued, and she waited until he was looking at her to add, "Maybe he's in love with you."

Greg smiled with genuine amusement.

"Yeah, right." He said.

"Why not?" She smiled. "You're cute. Anybody would fall head-over-heels for you; even him."

"No way," he said, smiling good-naturedly.

His dismissive tone annoyed her.

"What, you don't think he's capable of normal feelings?"

"I don't know," he frowned, "Is he?" But he smiled; he was only teasing.

She sighed.

"I know he's not the most demonstrative person in the world -" she started.

"To put it mildly," he interjected.

"Yes. Well… Gil is Gil. He has _quirks_," she said apologetically, "But he's a good guy, you know that. He just hadn't been in a relationship in years; he needs time to adjust."

Greg was about to take a sip of his coffee, but Janice's words made him pause.

She didn't notice.

"I know he can be difficult," she said, "But it doesn't mean he can't do better," she said earnestly, "Just -don't give up on him. Please."

Her plaintive tone bothered him.

"Hey, I don't mind." he said reassuringly, "It's not like I got into this for the sake of romance."

She seemed taken aback by the casual response.

"You didn't?"

"Well… no." he said, a little surprised that she would ask.

She seemed disappointed by his answer.

Greg shook his head.

"You see?" he asked, "That's the problem. You've been looking at this from a woman's point of view."

"And what does that mean?"

"It means that you think of us as a 'couple'," he said, "You envision all sort of romantic situations for us: Candle-lit dinners, massages at some fancy spa-" he added pointedly.

Janice stared expressionlessly at him. Greg was obviously alluding to the fact that she'd sent him gift certificates for dinners and massages for two.

"What's the problem with that?" she challenged.

"It's not that kind of relationship, Janice."

"What kind is it, then?" But when Greg didn't immediately answer, she added, "Oh. Sorry. I forgot that you can't talk to me. I forgot that you don't trust me."

"Oh, come on-" he protested.

"Forget it." She muttered, morosely dunking her spoon into the ice cream again.

_Oh, shit_. Greg thought. _Now, what?_

He was silent for a moment. He had vowed not to yield to Janice's prying, but he didn't want to alienate her either. He just didn't want to talk about Gil behind his back.

And yet… like it or not, he'd reached a point where he needed some guidance. There was no one else he could turn to.

Reluctantly, he spoke.

"You're his best friend -" he started.

"Nah," she interrupted, still in a bad mood, "I'm just the _oldest_,"

Greg chuckled, and after a moment she chuckled too.

"You're the one person who knows him best -" Greg said gently.

"I suppose."

"And you care about him," he said, and waited until she nodded. "The truth is... I'm kinda worried about Gil."

"You are?" she frowned, "Why?"

"I don't know, exactly. You know how difficult it is to know what's going on with him. And it's not like I can ask him -" he added almost to himself.

"Well... If you're worried about him, then tell him. He's a reasonable guy."

"Janice, if I were worried about his car, I would tell him. But it's not his car I'm worried about."

"So, tell me." she said gently. "Whatever it is, I promise it'll stay between you and me. I promise."

Greg took a little time to put his thoughts in order.

"Remember the last night we spent in Chicago?" he asked, "The night of the poker game? Well, after you and the others left the penthouse-"

"You stayed behind," she finished.

"Yeah," he said, "I wanted to stick around; you know, just in case."

She blinked.

"You didn't think he would have -" She started, but Greg quickly interrupted.

"Oh, I didn't think he was going to do something stupid," he said, "I just felt sorry for him. I mean, there he was, with a pile of photo albums and his former lover's ashes as sole company. I just couldn't leave him like that."

Janice was moved.

"That was very nice of you," she said, "We all tend to leave Gil alone," she admitted, "It's what he wants, but it's probably not what he really needs." She patted Greg's hand. "Go on."

"So, I thought I'd stay around and keep him some company. I figured he'd need someone around, when the events of the night finally hit him. I was probably the last person he'd open up to," he added, "But I thought I'd be there, just in case he needed to talk."

"And what happened?"

"Nothing." He said ruefully, "I mean, there I was, waiting for him to –I don't know- cry or break something. Or drink until he passed out." he shook his head at the memory. "But all he did was watch TV."

"Well…"

"And it's not like the events of the night didn't have any effect on him. There was a moment, back in the penthouse…" his voice trailed off. "But he never said anything. He never has."

Janice wasn't surprised. She knew Gil.

"He grieves privately." She said simply, "He's always been like that."

It was the only explanation she could give, but she knew it was not enough.

She sighed. She had had enough with Gil's policy of silence, and so she made a decision right then and there: She would talk to Gil. She would not leave Las Vegas till Gil promised to tell Greg all about his feelings.

She smiled to herself. She relished the idea of pushing and badgering Gil; it brought out the romantic in her.

She was so focused in her own thoughts that she'd almost forgotten Greg was there. His next question took her by surprise.

"Did you know Dr. Garrison well?"

"No," she said after a moment's hesitation. "Not well." She smiled after a moment, "I do remember he was a great guy to have around during finals. He lent his notes to anybody who asked."

She paused for a moment and then she said, "It was really difficult to get to know him. He was so secretive-"

She winced. She was practically describing Gil.

The same thought crossed Greg's mind.

"I bet Gil was more likable," he said.

"Oh, yeah." She nodded, "Gil was so sweet, so-" So _eager_, she wanted to say; so starved of affection that everybody wanted to adopt him…

She winced at these thoughts.

"Garrison shaped Gil's life, didn't he?"

"They shaped each other's lives." She said, "Gil needed affection, and Johnnie… Well, Johnnie needed to be reminded that he was a human being." She smiled at the memories suddenly crowding her mind, "Gil awoke protective feelings from everybody, you know? But for Johnnie, it went beyond that. He became Gil's mentor; a guide. A guide in all aspects, I guess."

"I saw Garrison the other day," Greg blurted out.

Janice blinked.

"You _saw_ him?"

"On TV." He said. "He was talking about the impact of mankind on the Amazon."

"Ah. The infamous BBC interview."

"Infamous?"

"It was his last TV appearance. He was doing research for a British foundation at the time. It was an ambitious project and he was completely committed to it, but he didn't stay long."

She looked at Greg, "Johnnie was a brilliant scientist, but he was a loner." She explained, "This time he had to work with other scientists, and, well, he didn't get along. Even his attitude towards the press did more damage than good to their project, so…"

"They booted him out." Greg finished. "He was an arrogant SOB, huh?" he added.

"Oh, yes. He knew he was smarter than everybody else in the room and didn't have any qualms to say so. Gil was the only one who could keep up with him."

She smiled at a distant memory. She remembered sitting at some bar, watching those two argue over some book or a project. It was difficult not to be overwhelmed by the passion they brought to their discussions.

She could very well imagine what their physical relationship was like. Frankly, she envied them.

"They loved each other," she said, "I know they did. And yet… I can't help thinking they were the worst that happened to each other."

She was lost in thought for a moment.

"No wonder Gil never had another relationship." Greg said. "Do you think they would have –I don't know – got together again?"

"After more than twenty years?" she scoffed, "I don't think so."

"I think they would have," Greg said thoughtfully. "It seems to me they never really said goodbye."

"Well… It's too late now. Gil must have said goodbye the day he found out about Johnnie's death."

"I don't know about that," Greg said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well…" He hesitated. "When someone close to us dies, we go through a grieving process. There's sadness involved. Anger too. There are all sort of feelings to deal with. We mourn, and then in time we get some sort of closure. But Gil hasn't gone through any of this. He hasn't even acknowledged the loss of his friend."

"Greg, if you're waiting for him to break down in public… it's not going to happen. He keeps his feelings inside." She looked at Greg for a moment. "Are you really worried about him?"

"Yeah. I guess I'm still waiting for him to cry or something."

"You're a good friend," she said softly. She gulped and, before she could think it over, she blurted out, "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you love him?"

Greg's expression didn't change.

"I love him," he said, "I love you, I love Catherine… I love everybody."

"Oh, really," she scoffed, "And are you sleeping with everybody too?"

He smiled at this.

"Nah, I'm not." He paused for a moment. "Look," he said, "I know you expect something from me... and from him, too. It's just… I'm not really good at relationships," he said apologetically, "Gil and me... we get along. That should be enough, don't you think?"

To his surprise, tears welled up in her eyes.

"I just want him to be happy."

He reached for her hand and patted it.

"He _is_ happy. Or as happy as he'll ever let himself to be," he added as an aside. "I don't think Gil pursues happiness, you know? I think all he wants is-" he hesitated over the word he was looking for, "Contentment." He said at last, "Strong emotions disturb order, and so, he ignores them. He's ignored them for so long that he wouldn't know what to do if-"

"You act as if Gil isn't capable of normal feelings and emotions."

"I don't know if he is." He said, "And that's precisely what's got me worried. All these years, he made himself believe that he didn't need Garrison, and now he believes his death doesn't mean much. But one of these days it will finally dawn on him that Garrison is gone. I don't know what his reaction is going to be, Janice. That's what I'm concerned about."

Janice frowned over this.

"He's over John."

"I don't think so," Greg said quietly. "And maybe that's the way he wants it," he added, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, "Maybe none of this is any of our business, you know. Whether he's over Garrison or not, or whether he's in denial about the whole situation.… If Gil is OK with it, then there's nothing we can do about it."

He picked up his paper cup and crushed it.

The gesture was clear: the conversation was over.

"Come on," he said, "Let's go. I'm escorting you to that fancy dinner at the casino, remember?"

She blinked.

It suddenly occurred to her that Greg was in complete control of his emotions.

Gil was rubbing off on him.

She shivered at the realization. For a moment, she felt the urge to tell him to forget all about Gil and run, run before his life became hopelessly entangled in a web of secrecy.

But this young man was Gil' only hope.

And so, feeling like a traitor, Janice merely smiled and followed him outside.

* * *

Greg drove in silence.

He was musing on what Janice had said about Gil's feelings for Dr. Garrison. He didn't tell her this, but in his opinion, Dr. Garrison was still very much alive in Gil's memory. Sometimes it was like the guy was hovering nearby, if one went solely by Gil's behavior.

This realization had come to him a few weeks ago, on a Sunday. It was the second time they'd managed to spend the day together. The first time they'd gone to a baseball game, but it looked like Gil wasn't keen on repeating the experience.

That was ok. Staying at Greg's place was a good option, too. They could play chess or read something from his well-stocked library. This time however, they ended up taking a nap in the balcony, under a beach umbrella that Greg had installed. Gil liked the balcony; he liked the sun.

They ate lunch there too, and afterwards they went inside to watch some TV.

They sat on the couch and put their feet on the coffee table.

"That was a great pizza." Greg muttered contentedly as he surfed the channels.

"Yeah." Gil said, and then he burped. "Excuse me," he mumbled.

Greg was about to make a teasing comment, when he burped too.

They smiled at each other in complicity.

"Too much garlic," Grissom mumbled.

"Do you want some ice cream?" Greg said.

"Ice cream?" Grissom asked incredulously. "You want dessert after scarfing down that pizza?"

"It's chocolate," Greg said enticingly. "It will clean your palate."

Grissom stared at him and then he shook his head.

"What?" Greg asked.

"Nothing." He muttered, "It's just that you eat more than I do -" he said, and then he eyed Greg's flat tummy. "Where does it all go?"

"It's genetic." Greg said smugly, "Papa Olaf is thin as a rail -all my family's thin."

"Lucky you." Grissom muttered.

"I was too thin, at one point," Greg admitted, "A few years ago, Sara asked me if I had an eating disorder." He chuckled, "I realized that if I didn't do something, I'd look out of place beside all the buff guys at the lab, so I joined a gym," he lifted a sleeve of his t-shirt, "See this?" he asked, flexing his bicep.

Grissom smiled.

"Show-off." He teased.

Greg turned his attention back to the TV. He tuned in the National Geographic Channel.

"Hey, there's 'Bug Attack'," he announced. "Cool! Last time I saw this show, a leech had made a cozy nest inside a guy's nostril!"

Grissom smiled. Greg loved horror movies and anything that made his skin crawl. Well, bug documentaries could be just as impressive as feature films.

"So, you wanna watch it?" Greg asked.

"Do you need to ask?" Grissom said, leaning into the couch, making himself comfortable.

Greg watched the show in silence. He was completely absorbed by it, so much than he didn't notice when the couch tilted under Gil's weight.

He slid closer and closer until he was able to brush his lips on Greg's cheek.

Greg turned his head in surprise. He looked questioningly at Grissom, who only smiled. Up this close, Greg noticed things -like how the sun had put some color on Grissom's cheeks, and how much it suited him. The ruddiness made his eyes look intensely blue-

Greg caught himself staring, and abruptly looked away.

But just as he was getting interested on the show again, a second kiss was pressed on his cheek. And a third. Soft, dry kisses, not meant to arouse, but sweet nevertheless.

Greg didn't move. They had done so much more than kissing, but always upstairs, in bed.

There was a sort of tacit agreement between them -they were supposed to be friends downstairs, lovers upstairs, and colleagues everywhere else. This was like being expected to act a part in the wrong setting, and Greg didn't know what was expected of him.

But it was kind of nice, and after a while Greg turned his face a little, offering something more tantalizing than a cheek or an earlobe for Gil's next kiss.

Their lips touched.

They kissed, then. Lazily, unhurriedly. They didn't even touch. Neither of them wanted sex; both had eaten too much and were self-conscious about it.

They were just showing a little affection.

Greg pulled back.

"We should go to the movies, one of these days." He said, "That's the perfect setting for a little necking, you know."

Grissom smiled faintly and leant forward for another kiss.

After a while, things started to heat up. Greg wrapped an arm and a leg around Grissom in order to get closer, and then he burrowed into Grissom's neck -his favorite place. It was warm and it had a wonderful scent, and kissing it never fail to get a reaction from the older man.

Grissom hissed.

"Greg-" He whispered huskily. "Greg, I-"

But before he could say anything else, something drew his attention away. A voice. He opened his eyes and looked over Greg's shoulder at the TV screen. He froze.

After a moment, Greg slowly pulled back and looked at Gil, who looked like he had seen a ghost.

Greg turned and realized that it _was _a ghost indeed. Dr. John Garrison was there, in the grainy footage of an interview he'd granted years ago.

Greg slowly returned to his own side of the couch, his whole attention on the TV, now.

He had always wondered about this guy, and now he was there, just as if he were alive.

Greg silently watched and took in some details -the pale blue eyes that stared unblinkingly at the camera, the rigid posture. A handsome man, yes. Arrogant. A man of strong convictions who probably believed that anyone who disagreed with him was wrong.

He talked about his research in South America and about the need to protect the Amazon, and it was clear that his sympathies lay with insects and wild creatures, and not with the humans who were slowly taking over.

Greg may have agreed with most of the doctor's conclusions, but he found it hard to sympathize with someone who came across as pompous and intransigent.

To his surprise, Grissom grabbed the remote and turned the TV off.

They were in silence until Greg spoke.

"Do you wanna talk about him?"

Grissom was still staring at the TV screen.

"No." he whispered.

"He cared about the environment." Greg said after a moment. It was perhaps the nicest thing he could say about the man.

For a moment it seemed that Grissom would not say anything.

"They used to call him the Jacques Cousteau of the insect world." He said at last.

"Wow." Greg said admiringly. After a moment he added, "It's hard to believe that he ended up the way he did, right?" he said, "He looked so self-assured…"

"Being in the public eye was stressful for him." Grissom said.

"Teaching can't have been any less stressful -"

Grissom scoffed softly.

"Well, now we know that it wasn't." He said casually.

They were silent again.

"So..." Greg said after a moment, "Do you want to go upstairs?" he asked.

Grissom's smile was brief and cold. "Sure," he said, "Why not?"

TBC

Thank you for reviewing! Hopefully, the next chapters will be coming by faster...


	16. Chapter 16

DECISIONS

Spoiler: Viva Las Vegas (When Greg mentions beer goggles)

Gil & Greg talk about a case. Brass remembers what he saw at a baseball game.

* * *

Greg sighed contentedly. He was sitting on a comfortable couch, eyeing the tasteful art on the walls and the sumptuous furniture in Janice's hotel suite. Gil had undoubtedly spent a lot of money on her, but as he had explained, he was making up for all the birthdays he had ignored.

"…So, I stopped drinking and smoking," Janice said. She was in the bathroom getting ready for dinner, but she had left the door half-open so they could talk. "Smoking was easy to give up once I found out how much it would cost me to have my teeth bleached."

There was a pause, and then she stood in the doorway, "Well?" she said, "What do you think?"

Greg looked up and nearly choked. Janice was wearing a dress that looked as if it had been painted on her.

She frowned at his reaction.

"What, no good?"

Greg didn't immediately answer -he was too busy coughing – but he wouldn't have known what to say, anyway. It's not that she didn't look good -she did- but the dress was too tight and her make-up was a tad too heavy. The truth was, she looked... well... Available.

"I didn't know you had those," Greg blurted out, waiving at her chest.

She looked down at her bosom.

"Oh, these two?" she asked, "I think they came with the dress." She smirked, "So, what do you think?" she asked again, "Will I be able to distract those poker players, tonight?"

Greg nodded.

"Oh, yeah," he said, rising from his seat. "Those poor saps better beware." He picked up her purse and handed it to her, "Come to think of it, you better beware, too. You'll be attracting a lot of attention tonight. I wish I could stay," he added as they walked to the door.

He had been all set to replace Gil as her escort for the night but a call from Nick had just put an end to those plans. There was a break in their case and Greg was needed back at the lab.

"Oh, I'm going to be all right," she said, "Gil already gave me pointers on how to deal with Vegas scum." She smiled as she took Greg's arm, "But I'm glad you're escorting me down to the casino." She added.

* * *

Jim Brass stood in the lobby of the Walhalla hotel, waiting for the doors of the elevators to open. He had come to the hotel to interview one of their guests, a Roger Davis, only to be told that Davis had just left. Brass didn't doubt the manager's word, but he didn't want to leave without at least checking onthe informationhe already had.

He would start by going up to Davis' floor. Even if he couldn't enter his room, he might get to ask a few questions from the man's neighbors.

A door opened, and several couples exited the elevator. Brass gave them a casual look, but there was one that caught his eye. The man in particular -he looked just like Greg Sanders.

On a closer look, Brass realized that it _was_ Sanders indeed. And he had a woman in his arm.

'Now, what?' Brass muttered to himself. Intrigued, he didn't hesitate to follow. He wanted to know what Greg was up to.

Brass had been keeping an eye on Greg for months now, ever since he'd spotted him watching a baseball game with Gil Grissom.

Brass still remembered how surprised he'd been at seeing those two together. Gil rarely socialized with his coworkers; and if he did, it was with the older members of his team -Catherine, Doc Robbins, or Brass himself. Hanging out with a young guy seemed out of character on Gil's part, and Brass wondered if his friend was going through some sort of middle-age crisis.

Whatever it was, Brass found it fairly amusing, and he made a mental note to tease Gil the next day.

He would have dismissed them from this thoughts if he had not glanced at them later, during a brief lull in the game. It was then that Brass saw something that made him pause and wonder whether his first assessment of the situation might be wrong. It was nothing, really –nothing from a stranger's perspective, perhaps- but to Brass it was a telling moment.

What he saw was Gil leaning over and saying something to Greg, who grinned and half turned to respond. The moment lasted just a few seconds, and they immediately turned their attention back to the game; but for Brass it was clear that what he'd just witnessed was more thana simple chat between colleagues.

He might not know much about Greg, but he knew Gil Grissom. This was a man who kept an invisible barrier around him –a barrier that people knew better than to cross. And yet, there he was, practically whispering in Greg's ear, in a gesture that was more than friendly. And Greg's reaction made it clear that he was just as comfortable with the closeness.

For a few seconds their faces had been just close enough for them to… To kiss.

Brass' eyebrows rose in amazement. Well, well.

Brass' first thought was that Gil was playing with fire, and that someone should warn him about it. But his second thought was that this was Gil's business and no one else's –certainly not Brass'. So, with this last thought firmly embedded in his mind, he had forced himself to look away.

Brasscouldn't help it, though. Towards the end of the game he glanced in their direction one last time, only to see something that made him realize that it wasn't Gil's business only –or Gil's heart, for that matter.

Again, it seemed like nothing: Just Greg glancing at Grissom and making a comment. A brief look... But Brass read a lot in it. There was admiration there –no surprise- but there was also something else… Infatuation, maybe?

Shit, Brass thought. The kid had a crush on Grissom –or he was going to have it soon, if that look was any indication. And that was no good. This was Gil, after all; someone who had neither the time nor the inclination to indulge in relationships -he hadn't even turned when Greg spoke.

So, Brass had inevitably worried about Greg. He was certain that the kid's feelings were going to be crushed. He had even tried to broach the subject toGil, with little success.

And now, surprise, surprise, there was Greg Sanders escorting an older woman. Was the kid playing both sides, now? And if he was, would Gil's own feelings be crushed?

Brass rarely butted into his coworkers' private lives, but he felt compelled to do it this time. Frankly, he was pissed off -he was pissed off on Grissom's behalf.

He also had a hunch.

Brass called headquarters and gave them a brief description of Greg's friend. If his intuition was correct, then Greg was about to find out just how dangerous playing games could be.

* * *

When Greg and Janice entered the casino, someone stepped into their path –Jim Brass.

"Well, if isn't Greg Sanders." He said sarcastically, "I see you're taking advantage of your new schedule."

Greg had stopped in his tracks.

"Brass. Hey."

"Enjoying the city's sources of entertainment, Sanders?" Jim asked, and he briefly eyed Janice. She didn't look bad for an older chick –not that he cared. He looked at Greg again, "Where are you going?"

But before Greg could answer, Janice intervened.

"Actually," She said, "That's none of your business, Mr. -" she paused.

Brass turned to Janice.

"Jim Brass." He replied, "_Captain_ Jim Brass." He added pointedly.

She scoffed.

"Oh? Am I supposed to fall back on my ass, blown away by your name?"

"You should, _honey_; in fact, I'm gonna ask you to come down to the station with me."

"Hey, Brass?" Greg intervened, "What is your problem?"

"Your friend here has been very naughty-" he said, "She's been taking young men on a wild ride only to rip them off afterwards -"

Greg gaped, but Janice's reaction was less restrained.

"Let me get this straight," she said, sticking her chin out, "You think I'm a hooker?"

"Look, honey-"

Greg quickly stepped between them.

"Jim," He said, "This is Janice Mahoney, _Doctor_ Janice Mahoney," he added, "Grissom's closest friend."

"Dr. what?"

Greg enjoyed seeing the look of mortification on Brass' face, but he was more concerned about Janice.

She wasn't looking at Brass anymore; she was looking down at herself, and there was a puzzled expression on her face.

"What's the problem?" she frowned, "This isn't too tight, is it?"

Brass stepped around Greg in order to talk to her.

"No, not at all," He said quickly, "Everything's just right, actually."

"Just right?" she repeated, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "For a hooker, you mean."

Brass cringed.

"Ok, look, I am sorry." He said, and then he added, with all the charm he could muster, "Blame it on my zeal to do my duty.Besides," he added, "It was an honest mistake. I was told that a beautiful red-headed woman was lurking around unsuspecting young men, and-"

Janice snorted loudly. She was not going to fall for that 'beautiful' bit and said so.

"Hey, missy," Brass replied, "For your information, cops don't lie in this city."

Janice rolled her eyes and scoffed. But she was smiling.

* * *

Greg was back at the lab. He was supposed to go straight to the morgue, but when he passed by Grissom's office, he noticed that the door was open. He peered inside. Grissom was clearly busy; there were piles of papers and several books open on his desk, and he was looking at something on his laptop.

Greg didn't want to interrupt, but it had been so long since they'd had a chance to talk…

He took a couple of steps inside.

"Hey." he said tentatively.

Grissom muttered a 'Hey, Greg,' but didn't look up.

"You're busy?" Greg asked, "I can come back later -"

Grissom looked up and smiled faintly.

"Come on in," he said. He kept his eyes on Greg until the young man took a seat, and then he glanced back at the screen.

"You'll never guess what happened tonight." Greg said after a moment, "Brass and Janice are having dinner together right now."

Grissom nodded distractedly and then he frowned. He looked up.

"What did you just say?"

"Brass mistook her for a hooker -"

"A _hooker_?"

"Oh, yeah. Brass really messed things up, Grissom. I mean, sure, her dress was a bit revealing, but -"

"Wait," Gil interrupted, "You better tell me the story from the beginning."

Greg smiled and told him.

"I can't believe it." Grissom glared after Greg was finished, "We're swamped with work and Brass is making dates."

"Aw, give them a break." Greg said, "This might be a match made in heaven."

Grissom scoffed.

"No, really," Greg insisted, "They seemed to be talking the same language. I mean, there she was, acting like a gangster's moll, while Brass talked just like a hardened PI from a fifties' movie."

Grissom was impressed. "Really?" he asked. "I wished I'd been there to see it."

"Oh, no." Greg said, "Believe me, you would have puked. They were being _cute_, for God's sake."

They shared a laugh over that.

"Thanks," Grissom said after a moment.

"For what?"

"For the comic relief."

"Hey, for all we know, they might be serious." Greg said, "I mean, Brass and Janice –what do you think?"

Grissom frowned.

"I don't know." He said, and then he shook his head, "I'm too busy," he added, and then he turned his attention back to his laptop.

Greg glanced at the papers on Gil's desk, and his attention was drawn to a couple of blown up pictures. Even upside down, the man on the top picture was easy to recognize –it was Arnold Monroe, the guy they'd found at the Holiday King Hotel. They had used the picture from hisdriving license.

The poor guy was smiling.

Greg looked away, only to realize that every object –every paper, every book- everything on the desk was related to the case.

He broke the silence.

"Do we have a serial killer?" He asked.

Grissom looked up as if he had forgotten that Greg was there.

"Yes," he said, "We do."

"He's going to keep killing, then."

"He is," Grissom said.

They were silent for a moment.

"You're gonna catch him." Greg said suddenly.

Grissom seemed surprised at the quiet intensity in Greg's words.

Greg smiled faintly.

"I mean," He said, "If anyone can do it, it's gotta be you, right?"

Grissom smiled back but didn't comment.

Greg leant forward. "Listen," he said, and then he paused, as if he were carefully choosing his next words. "I guess you can't discuss this case with anyone but Catherine, but can I offer you a few ideas?"

Grissom leant back in his chair and nodded. "Go ahead," he said.

"I was thinking," Greg said, "Someone who has this much control over a crime scene must have practiced before, right? Not the killing part," he added quickly, because he could see that Grissom was going to object. "But he must have rehearsed the ritualistic part of the crime: The tying up, the cutting…" he paused.

"So, maybe this guy assaulted others over a long period of time," Greg continued, "He didn't killthem but he may have performed some minor aggressions on them."

"Well... we've checked out hospital records," Grissom said, "But we haven't found anything, yet."

"Maybe these people didn't need medical attention." Greg said, "Maybe this guy didn't really harm them. Maybe he only scared them -you know, like instead of really cutting them, he only pretended to do so."

Grissom nodded thoughtfully.

"You may be right. I'm going to check on police records. If someone made a complaint - " He picked up his pen and wrote something on a sheet of paper. "The problem is," he said without looking up, "Most people wouldn't report this type of incident. Nobody wants to admit they chose the wrong date." He paused, "Gay men might be even less inclined to do so, right?"

"They might not talk to the police," Greg admitted, "But there are websites out there," Greg said, "People sometimes post messages warning others about the weirdoes they've met-"

Grissom nodded thoughtfully and added another line on his list. He was about to turn his attention back to his laptop, but Greg didn't want their conversation to end just yet.

"So," He said in a lighter tone, "Are you glad to have Catherine back in your team?" Greg paused, but not long enough to give Grissom a chance to answer, "She's got more experience, right?" He added, "This is an important case, after all."

Grissom didn't comment

"She was really pissed off when she took over the crime scene," Greg said sheepishly, "She said I overdid it."

Grissom smiled. It was true; Catherine had bemoaned the fact that Greg had dusted for prints not just on the obvious surfaces, but also on some that weren't as obvious. It was overkill, according to her.

"You did well," Grissom said, "There were some partials on the upper part of a doorframe. We haven't matched them yet, but they seem promising." He tilted his head, "What made you dust in there?"

"I don't know." Greg shrugged, "I overdid it, like Catherine said." He lowered his gaze as he spoke, and this time he noticed a sheet of paper resting on a corner of Gil's desk. It had the outline of a human body, and it was similar to the ones used by coroners to document a victim's injuries.

But this drawing was covered by what looked like random lines and squiggles, and not by the usual signs of violence. There were also numerous notes on the margins, handwritten by Gil.

"What's that?" Greg asked.

Grissom glanced at the drawing, but didn't immediately answer. Greg was right -they shouldn't be discussing the case.

And yet, he was tempted. Here was a chance for Greg to learn something new, something that might be useful in his future as a CSI. But Greg might have something to add to the investigation, too. After all, he was almost the same age as the victims', and he was more familiar with their lifestyle than Grissom, who knew very little about night clubs and the like.

Grissom leant forward on the desk, and he even lowered the voice.

"It's a reproduction of the cuts made on Monroe's body," he said, "I studied them and discovered that they were made from left to right, in a very orderly fashion. It seemed to me that there was a pattern somewhere, and so I copied the cuts on a sheet of paper." he paused and then he said, "Each cut is part of a letter. For instance, a vertical line that is followed by a circle, forms the letter 'p'." He paused.

Greg looked up sharply.

"Wow," he said admiringly, "And did you find other letters?"

Grissom nodded.

"The killer wrote 'Pretty boy' on our victim."

Greg was speechless.

"I haven't been seen any pictures from the dead man in San Francisco," Gil continued, "But the CSI I've been talking to, promised to take a closer look at the cuts."

Greg cleared his throat.

"What about our second body?"

"I believe the cuts are similar," Gil said, "But I can't be sureuntil the autopsy's performed."

The silence that ensued was broken by Greg, who was looking at the pictures again.

"Poor guys." He said, "They _were_ pretty boys... Until they met the killer."

Grissom nodded.

"The killer really lost it when he reached their faces. It's asif he wanted to obliterate them."

"Did he write anything on their faces too?"

"No. The damage seems random," Grissom said, "Except for one incision that looks very deliberate- a deep, vertical groove that runs from the upper lip to the nose-"

"Like a hare lip?" Greg asked.

"Exactly," Grissom nodded, pleased at Greg's quick reasoning.

"And what does that mean?"

"I don't know, yet." Grissom's said, refusing to speculate.

Greg didn't show the same restraint.

"Maybe the killer knew someone who had a hare lip-" Greg mused, and then he looked at Gil, "Or maybe he has one -"

"I find that hard to believe." Grissom argued, "Hare lips –or cleft palates- tend to be unsightly, and _these_ men…" he said, looking at the pictures on top of his desk, "They were picky about their dates, according to their friends."

"So, maybe he had corrective surgery," Greg said, "It's effective, right?"

"It is," Grissom said, "It's even be performed on babies. There are some colateral problems, though. Scars, for instance. Or speech problems. I don't think _these_ guys would have gone out with someone who didn't look or sound right."

"Not necessarily," Greg said, "I mean, if they met this guy at a bar or a dance club... Those places are dark and noisy, Grissom. And if you're drinking..." he shook his head, "Well, let's just say that sometimes you don't know who you are with until the next morning, when you open you eyes, and -"

"And you don't have beer goggles anymore." Grissom finished sarcastically. "Yeah, you told me all about it, a while ago."

Greg smiled with some embarrassment. He didn't like the reminder; he had said those words shortly before failing his proficiency test.

He looked up.

"I wish I could help." He said abruptly.

"It's ok, Greg. You gave me a couple of ideas, tonight. And thanks to you, we have those partials." Grissom said, "I sent them to San Francisco." He added, "They offered to tell me if they got a match."

"Are you sharing your evidence?" Greg smiled.

"Yeah." Grissom smiled faintly, "We are."

Greg knew how territorial investigators could be about their evidence. Often, when a killer crossed state lines and more than one crime lab became involved, a legal battle ensued over the handling of the investigation.

If the cops from one state wanted absolute credit for catching a Perp, then they simply withheld whatever information they had. And if they handed it over, it was only after some lengthy negotiations. Meanwhile, a killer could simply move from one state to another.

But Grissom didn't want to negotiate his evidence. All he wanted was to catch this man.

"This guy is losing control, Greg." He said, "He's escalating. The last crime scene was..." he didn't finish. Greg didn't have to know every detail. "It's only a matter of time before he makes a crucial mistake," he said, "But in the meantime, he might get to kill again."

Greg noticed that his boss had a haunted look –the one that he acquired when a case went unsolved for too long.

There was little he could do for Gil, except-

"Do you want to meet later?" He asked tentatively. "Grab a cup of coffee or something -"

A cup of coffee was just a cover for what he was really suggesting, and Grissom knew it.

"Oh." He hesitated, just like he always did, "Well... I can't just now." He said, "I got lots to do." He looked up, "But I want to." He admitted in a rare moment of candor.

"Give me a call, then." Greg said.

Grissom kept his gaze on Greg. He'd just realized that they hadn't talked much in the past few days.

"So," he said, "How is it, working with the swing shift?"

"Swinging." Greg joked. "It's ok. I like working with Nick and Warrick, but this new schedule's driving me crazy -"

Someone knocked on the open door then. It was Nick, and Warrick was with him.

"Hey, Griss," Nick greeted. "You've got a minute?"

"Sure."

Warrick glared at Greg, "Hey, doug," he said. "We paged you about two hours ago. We've got the results of the autopsy." He added, waving a sheet of paper.

"Doc Robbins found a couple of friends of yours in there, Grissom." Nick said, "Larvae. Could you take a look at them for us?" he asked, and he handed Gil a tiny vial.

Greg watched as Grissom delicately took the vial and held it under his desk lamp. Gil immediately identified the contents and engaged in a lengthy explanation; Nick and Warrick listened attentively, but Greg didn't pay any attention -not to his words, anyway.

He was more interested in Gil's hands, and in the eloquent way they moved their owner spoke.

Greg liked Gil's hands. They were skilled -in ways that Nick and Warrick would never suspect. Greg smiled to himself as this thought crossed his mind. He couldn't help it; he always got a kick out of the fact that he and Grissom shared a secret.

If Nick and Warrick only knew…

Not that he had any intention of telling them. They would never believe it, anyway. Greg himself was still surprised by it. _It,_ since he didn't now what to call what he and Gil had. Definitely not a relationship, no, of course not.

What they had… It was _chemistry_. Yeah. That was it –chemistry. They had _fun_ -and he couldn't help but be amazed at how much fun one could have with a man who was not a fun person himself.

But then, there was more to Gil than met the eye, and Greg was the first to admit it. Gil was... well, special. He had a way of making old things feel different. Old games, for instance.

Like the other day, when Gil (who was not into domination and submission, and would probably freak if Greg ever asked him to assume either role) had whispered into Greg's ear, '_just lie back and let me do everything.' _

Greg had surrendered out of curiosity rather than any high expectations, but he hadn't regretted it –oh, no.

And now, while Grissom did his Entomologist bit, Greg took a deep breath and sat back and relived that lazy afternoon and the things they'd done in bed. And mostly, he remembered Gil's hands...

Greg remembered some details more vividly than others. At one point, for instance, he'd opened his eyes to catch a glimpse of Grissom's face, and noticed how Gil kept the tip of his tongue tightly held between his teeth, and how his eyes remained closed, and how the whole effect was one of deep concentration.

It was a look that Greg had seen before, on countless music videos. He had seen it on musicians who didn't merely play their guitars but practically made love to them. And the analogy worked. Yeah, Gil had played Greg's body like a virtuoso, and every time his touch elicited a moan from the young man, Grisom had smiled, just like a musician who enjoys the sound of a well-struck chord.

Greg still wished he had been able to watch Grissom's face through to the end; he had lost it, though.He had closed his eyes and screamed his head off at the crucial moment, and after that he'd been barely aware of his surroundings, althoughhe'd been vaguely aware that Grissom had reached his own moment of bliss a while later.

Greg did know that Gil had not screamed -but then, he never did.

Greg still hoped that one day he would. Maybe one day he would even scream Greg's name.

Maybe.

Or maybe one day he would scream John Garrison's name…

This thought made him frown, but only for a brief moment. It didn't really mattered. It's not like he had never fantasized about anyone else when he was with Gil; of course he had -only not lately.

Frankly, Gil didn't give him a chance to think of anybody else. He was just everywhere- in the scent and the shape of his body, his generous hands-

And there he was, back at the beginning, thinking of the hands that worked so well on his body-

"Hey, Greg?" Nick said, waving a hand in front of his face, "Are you coming?"

'Oh, yeah,' Greg thought, and then he blinked. He reddened when he realized that he had been daydreaming all along.

Fortunately for him, Nick and Warrick were already walking away. They didn't notice Greg's confusion.

But maybe Grissom did. He was smiling faintly.

After a moment, Greg smiled back.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

DECISIONS

Thanks for reading this story, and a bigger thanks for taking the time to write reviews and messages of encouragement!

Decisions, part 17.

Note: The correct quote is_: Is this a dagger I see before me_... (from Macbeth)

* * *

Their plans to meet at Greg's place were thwarted time and time again, however. One or the other would have something else to do, and for the next couple of days they couldn't even talk on the phone. On the second day they met by chance at the Morgue, but they were not alone, and so their exchange was brief- 

Greg: "So, how are you doing? Any progress on -"

Grissom: "Can't talk about it, Greg."

Of course, he couldn't discuss the investigation. Greg understood. It was frustrating, but he understood. He didn't like it, though.

The next night, he didn't even look for Grissom. He simply went home and got in bed early. He was tired but, try as he might, he just couldn't sleep.

Greg was restless; he would jump out of bed, go downstairs, pick a book, put it back, pick another... And then he would go back to bed. He would read a couple of lines, put the book down, and after a moment, he would go downstairs again.

By the time he discarded the third book he'd picked, he realized he would not get any sleep that night.

It was past midnight, and Greg looked around his room, wondering what he could do on a Friday night that was winding down. And almost immediately he smiled. God, it was so obvious. His friends had to be out there somewhere; maybe he should join them.

It had been a while since he had enjoyed a night out without getting calls from Grissom or Sara. It was one of the prices to pay for being a CSI, and he didn't really mind; it had put a strain in his relationship with his friends however, and they called him less and less these days.

Well, this time it would be Greg making the calls.

It was almost two in the morning, so most of the friends he called were already drunk and not really coherent; but Tim was still wide awake. The first words they exchanged were somewhat tentative. They hadn't spoken much in the last couple of months, and their relationship had considerably cooled.

Tim was the first to point that out.

"So," he said, "Where's Mystery Guy tonight?"

"Not here." Greg said simply.

"Really? And where is he? Home with the wife?"

Greg scoffed. He had refused to tell his friends anything about Grissom, and this had only fueled their imagination. In his friends' minds, Greg was having sex with a married guy –a politician, perhaps; some big honcho from the casinos... and on and on and on.

"He's somewhere in Las Vegas." He said casually.

"But not _there_." Tim said.

"Nope."

"And you're lonely," Tim said confidently, "Am I right?" He paused, and then he lowered his voice, "Are you up for some fun and games, Greg? It's been a while."

Greg leant back into his pillow and closed his eyes for a moment. He had a sudden vision of the games he could play with Tim, and the anticipation made him shiver. It had been a while, indeed.

"I can be there in half an hour," Tim said, "I just need to pick up something -"

Greg noticed the urgency underneath Tim's words, and recognized it for what it was: hunger. Hunger for sex -but mostly, hunger for whatever it was that he needed to pick up. It had happened before; whenever Tim won a big case (or when he lost a big case, too) he went on a big celebratory spree, mostly binging on recreational drugs.

Greg had always put up with his friend's habits, even though he didn't share them. But something in Tim's voice made him hesitate this time. The idea of playing games appealed to him, but not if Tim was going to leave traces of cocaine all over his house.

Greg was about to suggest that they meet elsewhere, when something moved into his line of vision. Up in the ceiling, his resident spider was moving tentatively on the silky threads of its web. Greg smiled. The industrious fella had kept his apartment free of flies. Grissom had told him all about this species-

"So, Greg?" Tim said in the same playful tone, "Do you want me to come over? Or would you rather come here?"

Greg hesitated. He could hear the desire in Tim's voice, and he could also hear the frantic music, the laughter, and the slightly slurred voices of his friends in the background.

It had been so long since he'd enjoyed some mindless fun...

But for some reason, the idea of going to a disco and meeting his inebriated friends didn't appeal to him –not even with the promise of sex. He couldn't understand why.

"Greg?" Tim repeated, more loudly this time, "Are you coming over?"

Greg kept his gaze on the spider as he answered.

"Well, I'm kinda busy right now, Tim." He said evasively, "I just wanted to know how you were doing."

"How am _I_ doing?" Tim asked, and then, to Greg's surprise he burst out laughing. It was not a happy sound.

"Look," Greg said, "I thought we could talk -"

"Hey, Greg?" Tim interrupted, "Listen; if you wanna talk, then that's fine - you've got enough friends for that. Just do me a favor: Don't call _me_ unless you want to fuck, ok?"

And then he hung up.

Greg exhaled.

"Ok." He said, even there was nobody listening.

He let the phone slip from his fingers.

* * *

After that, Greg stared at the ceiling for quite a while. Then, on an impulse he couldn't quite explain, he picked up his phone again, and called Grissom's office. 

He called, knowing full well that the odds of Grissom being there were low -he would probably get Gil's voice mail. But that was the whole point; he didn't really want to talk to Grissom, he just wanted to hear his voice.

He was stunned to hear Gil answer the phone with a brisk 'Grissom.'

Greg's mouth opened but didn't utter a sound.

"Hello?" Grissom insisted.

Greg hesitated; hanging up was tempting, since he was not calling from his cell phone and Grissom would probably not recognize the caller's number. But he didn't want Gil to think that someone was playing a joke on him.

"Hey." He said.

Silence. And then, a cautious, "Greg?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Where are you?"

Greg smiled. He could picture Grissom frowning and staring at the unfamiliar number on the screen. Gil's voice was so expressive, one didn't need to be looking at him to know what was going on.

Yep, he could be an open book, Gil. Except when he held back –which was most of the time, actually.

"Greg?" Grissom interrupted his musings.

"I'm home." Greg said.

"Oh." Grissom said, and then he waited. And waited. "Is everything all right?" he finally asked.

Greg didn't immediately reply. He had called Gil's office number on an impulse, and now he didn't know exactly what to say. Or rather, he didn't know _how_ to say it: He wanted Grissom to come over.

But, since he already knew what Grissom's answer would be, (a resounding 'No'), he resisted the urge to say it out loud. After Tim's parting shot, Greg wasn't in the mood for another rejection.

On the other hand, he knew that Gil would at least be nice about it.

"I'm bored." Greg blurted out. He closed his eyes and braced himself for Gil's response.

"What?"

Greg opened one eye. That didn't sound so bad. There was incredulity and exasperation in that response, but not anger. That was a good sign.

"I'm bored," Greg repeated brazenly. "I can't sleep; I've been lying in my bed for hours, looking at that little pal of yours wobble down flies-" he yawned. "I tried watching TV and then I tried reading, but it doesn't work -"

"And?" Grissom asked impatiently, "What do you expect me to do -sing you a lullaby?"

Greg chuckled.

"No." He said, "I was hoping you might want to come over."

"What?" More incredulity/exasperation. "Greg, right now I'm-"

"Busy." Greg finished.

"Exactly."

"There's only about one hour left in your shift, Grissom," Greg pointed out, "You can slip out early, if you feel like it. That's one of the perks of being a supervisor, isn't it? I mean, what's the good of being the boss if you can't leave early now and then?"

He paused, in case Gil wanted to say something. He didn't.

"Besides, you need to take a break." Greg added with more confidence, "Seriously, Grissom; when was the last time you took a night off?" He didn't pause long enough to get an answer, "Look...You can stay there, if you want. But if you come over, we could order some food from that 24/7 place you like so much –my treat. Or... we could just crawl under the sheets and, hum, take a nap. What do you say?"

Grissom didn't reply, but there was a sigh, audible enough for Greg to pick up. Greg could almost picture Gil taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes, thinking... thinking...

Greg didn't kid himself, though; just because Gil was thinking things over didn't mean he was seriously considering dropping everything at his request; it was more that he was simply trying to come up with an excuse, a gentle alternative to what he probably wanted to say, '_Are you crazy? I can't leave my job just because you're bored!' _

Greg tried to take advantage of Grissom's hesitation.

"But you don't have to decide right now," he said persuasively, "I'll just leave you my key under the doormat. That way, you can come in any time you want."

"You _don't_ have a doormat." Grissom replied.

Greg smiled again. Grissom had used his teasing tone –always a good sign.

"I'll leave it on the door frame, then."

"Don't," Grissom said quickly, "You know how many break-ins occur because home-owners leave their keys there -"

Greg smiled. If Grissom was willing to discuss the matter, that could only mean that he was coming.

In more ways than one.

* * *

Greg listened as Grissom opened the door and climbed the stairs. 

It was the first time he waited in bed for Gil. They had always climbed the stairs together.

Greg turned on a bedside lamp.

"Morning," he greeted as soon as Grissom appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Morning," Grissom replied quietly. He took a couple of steps, not to the bed but to the chest of drawers on the opposite side "I've got your key." he added, dangling it from his fingers. "I hope you don't leave it outside again."

There was a warning behind the casual words, and Greg didn't miss it. Slowly, he sat up, ready to face the music.

"You're mad at me," he said.

"I'm not mad." Grissom said evenly. "But I was at work, and you knew it, Greg." He paused and took a little time to compose what he was going to say next, "Greg, we've been able to keep this separate from what we do at the lab, mostly because we've been -"

"-discreet." Greg finished. "I know."

"You do?" Grissom asked quietly, "Good. Then I guess I don't need to ask you not to do this again." He added, pointedly dropping Greg's key on the chest of drawers. Then he turned and crossed his arms, "Why did you call me?"

Greg looked down. He wished he knew the answer to that question.

"I don't know." He said quietly, "I guess I just needed some company." He looked up, "You don't feel like that sometimes?" Greg asked the question but he didn't really expect an answer and didn't get one. "Did my call piss you off, Grissom?" he asked contritely.

"It was unexpected." Grissom said evenly. "Frankly, you don't strike me as the kind of guy who would be bored, Greg. And you have the nights off now; I would have expected you to be out there, taking advantage of your new schedule. You could go to the movies, or to parties, or -"

"Oh, I _went _to a party." Greg said abruptly.

Grissom paused.

"Did you?" he asked evenly.

Greg didn't know why he lied, but he couldn't back down now.

"Yeah," he nodded. "I did."

"Good for you." Grissom said expressionlessly.

"Yeah, well... I met some friends, and-" Greg shrugged, "You know-"

"Actually, I don't." Grissom said quietly.

"Well..." Greg hesitated, "We, hum, went from one place to another -" He paused, and then he changed the subject, "So, what about you? Any progress on your serial?"

"I can't talk about it, Greg."

Greg knew he shouldn't keep asking, and fortunately for him, Grissom didn't point that out.

It was something to be grateful for.

"Ok," Greg said good-naturedly, "I understand. Besides," he added, "Talking isn't my top priority right now. Here," He said, patting the space next to him, "I kept it warm for you."

Grissom studiously avoided looking at the bed.

"I still have work to do, Greg."

"-and it's not going anywhere," Greg finished. "You, on the other hand... are right here."

It was a good point: Gil had dropped everything to come down here, and that meant that he, too, needed some company.

Not that Grissom would ever admit it.

"I don't know if I can stay." Gil said.

"Grissom…" Greg started, but he really knew better than to insist. He wasn't giving up -he was merely changing tactics. "All right," he said slowly. "Tell you what: I'm gonna try to get some sleep. I'm gonna make myself comfortable here..."

And he illustrated his words by picking up his pillow, fluffing it, and putting it back, and by burrowing under the covers. He turned his back on Grisom and then changed positions until he found one that suited him. He sighed contentedly.

"Mmmh," he said, "It's nice and toasty here…" he paused, "But it's kinda lonely..."

He waited.

A moment later, Greg got the response he was hoping for; not words, but a faint rustling sound that he recognized and made him smile: the sound of clothes being removed. Grissom had capitulated. There was the sound of keys and other hard objects being placed on top of the chest of drawers, the sound of a belt being unbuckled… clothes laid on a chair, shoes carelessly dropped-

The bed dipped under Gil's weight as he crawled under the covers. Soon, he was right next to Greg, tentatively reaching for the hem of Greg's ratty t-shirt, waiting fot the young man to cooperate. Without turning, Greg lifted his arms so Grissom could remove the t-shirt, and then they disposed of Greg's boxers too.

Greg noticed that Grissom felt slightly cold and smelled of the generic soap they used at the lab. Gil had taken a shower before coming over. Greg smiled knowingly. It seemed that Mr. Gil 'I-don't- know-if-I-can-stay' Grissom had been hoping to get lucky all along.

Well, well.

Greg's smile widened when he felt Gil's arms around him, pulling him closer, but his eyes opened wide when he felt something on his backside.

"Whoa, Grissom." He winced, "'Is this a dagger which I feel behind me?' You, ah, are _poking_ at me."

Grissom instinctively pulled away.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"Hey, that's ok." Greg said quickly, reaching behind to stop Gil from moving farther away. "Stay there." he said, and just to emphasize that command, he burrowed into Gil's arms again, deliberately grounding his buttocks against Gil's erection. "Shit, Grissom," he gasped, "That feels more like a _sword_ than a dagger-"

There was no verbal response from Gil, but then the man was too busy laying kisses on the nape of Greg's neck.

"You know…" Greg whispered, "This kinda makes me wonder."

"Wonder?"

"Yeah. It makes me wonder if having you in me would feel as good as I think it would."

Gil froze.

"I think it would," Greg sighed, blissfully unaware of Gil's reaction. "What do you think?" he asked, "Would you like to try that?"

He turned within the circle of Gil's arms, until they were facing each other.

"Well?" he asked. He looked closely at Grissom, trying to find the answer to his question on Gil's expressive eyes. For a brief moment, Greg read all sort of emotions –desire, hesitation, fear- but all too soon, Grissom glanced away, and when he looked back, he had mastered his emotions so well, that Greg couldn't read anything anymore.

It suddenly dawned on Greg that for all the intimacy they had shared, they'd rarely talked about sex, he and Gil.

"You've done this before, right?" he asked now.

"_You_ have." Grissom said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Yeah." Greg said candidly. And then he realized that while Grissom had ignored the question, he had answered it nevertheless. "You mean, you never…?" Greg asked, clearly surprised. "Whoa," he said, "So you and John didn't…"

"Greg-"

It was only one word, but there was an implicit warning in the tone: _Don't go there_. And Greg, who usually knew better than to ask anything about Garrison, quickly got the message. Grissom rarely talked about the doctor; he certainly was not about to start giving him details of their sexual relationship.

But the young man wouldn't let the matter alone; now that the subject had been introduced, he wanted to find out just how far he could go with Grissom. The truth was, those games he had played with Tim… he missed them. Greg liked to be taken, and he'd enjoyed taking Tim and all the others.

But the mere idea of taking someone like Grissom, who was such a master of self-control… that was like a fantasy come to life. Greg looked attentively at Grissom. '_Oh, yes_,' he though, '_What I wouldn't give to divest Gil of that control, if only for a few minutes-'_

"So," Greg said huskily, "What do you think? Would you like to to try? You can do me first-"

Grissom couldn't held Greg's gaze. He looked away, and then he slowly released the hold he'd had on Greg.

"Hey," the young man said, "What's wrong?"

Grissom shook his head. He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. In silence.

Greg cleared his throat.

"You, hum, got a problem with that?" he asked. When he got no response, he continued, "Grissom, you don't have to do anything you don't want to," he said. He touched Gil's face, motioning him to look at him, "I just thought… you know, that you might like to try something new."

"Greg… " but he just shook his head, again.

"I guess it's a big deal," Greg said, "I know some guys just don't like the idea of being on the bottom," he admitted, "They think it's demeaning, or something. I don't have any problem, either way-" He glanced at Grissom, who didn't respond, "Look," he said more seriously, now. "If you're concerned about hum, other things... Well, I'm clean, Grissom. I've been tested. And me and my friends have always been careful. We always used protection, and whenever we-"

"Greg-" Grissom said, putting a halt to what looked like the start of a long, technical description. "I know," he said simply. "I just don't-" he shrugged. He clearly didn't want to explain why.

Greg laid a hand on Grissom's chest, "You're not even a little bit curious?" He asked.

Grissom was looking at him, but his thoughts seemed to be far, far away from there.

"Thinking… thinking…" Greg whispered. They were in silence for a moment. Then he slipped an arm around Grissom and leant to whisper in his ear, "I would make it good to you," he said, "You know that, right? Mmmmh?"

Grissom's throat felt suddenly dry. He gulped with some difficulty but didn't answer.

"But you don't have to decide, right now." Greg said good-naturedly. "Just think it over." And then he started kissing Grissom's neck.

Grissom wrapped his arms around Greg again. He couldn't give everything to Greg... but what he could give, he gave wholeheartedly.

* * *

Sunshine started pouring through the blinds into Greg's apartment. 

The young man had finally fallen asleep –with the deep slumber that gripped him after good sex. Unfortunately for him, that blissful rest was rudely interrupted by a phone call.

Greg's work as a CSI had taught him to wake up and react quickly, but this time he only managed to reach blindly for the phone and mumble an intelligible greeting into it.

But his eyes snapped opene when he heard the voice on the other side of the line. It was Tim, and he was crying.

Oh, shit.

Greg glanced furtively at Grissom, who fortunately hadn't stirred, and then he whispered, "Give me a minute," into the phone.

He stumbled out of bed and went downstairs. He sat on the couch and took a deep breath. He knew what was coming –he'd been through that before. It was the part he did not miss about being with Tim. The games were ok, but there were always side effects to contend with –the killer hangovers, the cocaine-induced euphoria, the shakiness brought by cocaine withdrawal…

But when Tim cried, there was usually something more serious to deal with.

He took the call. "Tim? Are you ok?"

"I screwed up, Greg." He said, and he said it over and over, until Greg finally cajoled him into an explanation. "I lost my job." he said mournfully.

Greg closed his eyes. Oh, hell.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

"You didn't want me to come, remember?" he retorted, "And besides, I was feeling fine -"

But now the drugs were wearing off, and he didn't feel so good anymore. Yep. Just like old times.

"Tim…" Greg took a deep breath, "Listen, I can't talk, right now. I'm not alone." He added pointedly.

"You said he wasn't there -"

"Look. Just give me a couple of hours," Greg said, "I'm sure he'll be gone by then. I'll call you, ok?" And he tried to placate his friend.

* * *

Gil Grissom rarely fell asleep after having sex with Greg. Sometimes he'd pass out for a few minutes, only to wake up abruptly, feeling as if he'd been drowning and fighting for breath. 

That's exactly what happened this time. Only, instead of stumbling out of bed as he sometimes did, he remained motionless, out of consideration for Greg, who was still asleep.

It also gave him a chance to watch over Greg for a little while. He liked to do that now and then; it gave him a sense of belonging.

He cherished those moments, more so because they didn't last long. Once he got up, Grissom forced himself to face facts: mostly, that he was not in a relationship with Greg, and that whatever there was between them, it could end at any time.

Whenever his hopes and dreams took him too far, Gil simply told himself that one of these days Greg would realize that he needed more... Or he would make some demand that Grissom could not meet… And then it would be all over.

And maybe that day had finally come.

Grissom thought of their earlier conversation, and of Greg's offer. An offer -and a request. There was nothing surprising or unreasonable about it, (frankly, Greg's request was pretty tame, compared to the things he could have asked).

Greg had taken Grissom's refusal well –fortunately for Grissom, who would have had a hard time explaining why he couldn't do give in.

He couldn't even explain it to himself.

Pain was the least of his concerns; that much he knew. Maybe it was simply a matter of trust? To submit like that, one would have to trust a partner. And while Grissom did trust Greg –up to a point, at least- he just didn't trust himself. He knew -he just knew that he would lose control if he gave in to Greg.

It would be too intense.

That's what worried him, he realized now; not just the emotional connection that would derive from such an act, but the intense pleasure, too. Grissom knew it would be good -too good. He, who managed to keep some emotional distance from Greg during sex, would suddenly be bereft of all self-control. Who knew what would happen, then?

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

'Is this the beginning of the end?' He wondered.

A part of him, eternally hopeful and romantic, refused to believe it. After all, hadn't Greg cajoled him into coming tonight? And that stupid plot of his –the key on the doorframe- had worked well, too, making it plain how _not_ in control Gil already was.

But the point was, Greg had needed him. Even after being with his friends at a party, Greg had called _him._ That ought to mean something.

Grissom smiled, then. Yes, there was something there. He didn't want to hope, but what if…?

Greg's phone rang, then. Gil didn't stir; he simply watched as Greg reached for the phone and talked.

Grissom closed his eyes. He was wondering if he could take a short nap, when suddenly he heard Greg utter a surprised, 'Tim?'

That was a familiar name. Gil repeated, _Tim, Tim_… Wasn't that the name Greg mentioned back in Chicago, when he was lying on Grissom's sumptuous bed? Tim, who could be the guy kissing Greg at the Disco…?

The bed tilted as Greg got up and went downstairs.

Gil didn't mean to eavesdrop, but his exceptionally good hearing let him hear one side of the conversation. He picked up Greg's concern in, "_Why didn't you tell me?"_, but it was the way he said, '_He'll be gone by then,' _that prompted Grissom to stop listening.

Gil flushed as he realized that Greg was counting on him to be gone so Tim could come over.

Grissom jumped out of bed then. Mechanically, he picked up his clothes and put them on in a hurry, even stuffing his boxers in a pocket when he realized that he'd put on his pants first. He needed to get out, and fast.

He didn't want to think, he didn't want to wonder... but how could he not? Tim was coming over. Tim. A younger man, a more adventurous one, someone with less baggage... Just what a restless Greg needed.

He refused to dwell on this, though. He put on his shoes –and only one sock; the other was lost in the shadows, but he would not turn on the light and announce Greg that he was awake.

Grissom reached for his cell phone, but as he did, his hand touched the chest of drawers. Grissom laid his palm flat on its surface, and for a moment he stood there, remembering what Greg had said about it. It was one of several pieces of furniture that Papa Olaf had built for him over the years.

There was a bookshelf downstairs and a dining table that Greg rarely used, but kept anyway, because it was part of his inheritance. 'Papa Olaf thinks I'll get married and have eight kids some day,' Greg had told him once.

"Goodbye," Gil whispered.

It felt less painful than he thought. But then he'd been practicing. The truth was, every time Grissom left Greg's apartment, he paused at the door and looked around, trying to absorb every detail –the books in the shelves, the big couch, the posters on the wall, the cracks on the ceiling- so, in case he didn't come back, at least he'd have a clear picture in his mind.

Gil heard a sound behind him. Greg was climbing the stairs.

"Shit," the young man said, "I woke you up."

"No." Grissom said hoarsely. He cleared his throat, "No," he repeated, and this time he managed to smile, "It's ok. I've got to leave, anyway. Gotta go back to work."

"Ok." Greg said good-naturedly.

Grissom glanced at him. Greg was standing there, naked, completely at ease. It was a painful sight for Grissom, who suddenly had the certainty that this was really the last time he'd get to see Greg like this.

He had a sudden urge to ask, '_Are you bored, Greg?'_ but he held back when he realized how stupid that question was. It's not like Greg could come up and say, 'Yeah, Grissom, I'm bored, I'm tired of the same old routine...' Of course not. He would never risk messing things up with the boss.

This thought bothered Grissom. Maybe it was time for him to do something –say something and free Greg, so to speak. Do something noble for a change.

He picked up his cell phone and pocketed it. Then he cleared his throat.

"Greg," he said, "I feel- I mean, I think…"

But before he could think of the appropriate words, Greg picked up Gil's hand and pressed something into it.

Grissom opened his hand and looked. There, lying on his palm, was a key.

"What is this?" he asked in confusion.

"My key," Greg said matter-of-factly, "The one you used to get inside only a few hours ago?" he added with a smirk. Then he smiled, "Keep it."

Grissom paused.

"Your key?"

"Yeah, keep it." Greg said, "You like my balcony." He explained when he noticed Grissom's hesitation, "Now you can use it even if I'm not here."

Grissom didn't know what to say.

"Are you sure?" he asked at last.

"Yeah!" Greg said, "I've got another copy." he said dismissively.

Grissom looked down. The key felt cool and heavy in his palm. Solid.

He curled his fingers around it.

His former resolution to talk to Greg crumbled.

Suddenly, he didn't care if Tim came over; he had this key in his hand, and that was all that mattered.

Gil smiled ruefully.Just as he had finally gathered the strength to be realistic and put an end to months of uncertainty, there it was again... Something he craved but mistrusted at the same time; something elusive and sweet, but powerful-

Hope.

TBC

Next- a perp is caught, and Greg finally reveals all about his Mr. Hyde (and I still can't believe it took me this long to get to this part of the story!)

Then, there'll be another case that will really put a strain on their relationship, and after that... A happy ending!

Hopefully, it won't take me a year to get there...


	18. Chapter 18

DECISIONS

PART 18

Damn, I can't believe how long it took me to write this.

I tried to focus on the investigation a first, but I was way out of my league, so, I gave it up. I tried to apply the little I've learned from watching reruns of L&O.

Anyway... here it goes: Greg finally talks about Mr. Hyde.

* * *

Greg leant heavily against the kitchen counter, his forehead resting uncomfortably on the top cabinet. It had been another sleepless night for him, and now all his hopes were centered on the coffee maker. Once he got a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, he'd start to feel human. Until then...

He yawned noisily.

His cell phone rang at that precise moment, and for a moment it seemed like he was the one making that shrill noise. Chuckling softly, he fished around for his cell in the ample pockets of his pajama bottoms. When he was on call, he kept the phone close at all times.

Without opening his eyes, Greg mumbled a greeting, half-expecting to hear Nick's voice or Warrick's. To his utter surprise, it was Gil who spoke, and what the older man said was enough to wake him up.

"We've got him." Gil said. He didn't add anything, but he didn't have to; Greg immediately knew who he meant.

"You arrested him?"

"Not yet." Grissom said, "But we got his fingerprints, and they place him at the scene. Brass' got a warrant to search his home."

"You got his fingerprints? He was in the system?"

"He is now," Grissom said curtly.

"Who _is_ this guy?"

Grissom paused.

"Can't tell you, yet." He said.

_Of course_, Greg thought, a bit mortified. He should know better than to ask questions Gil could not give any answers to -not before making an arrest, at least, and certainly not over the phone.

"Sorry," Greg said. "I know you can't talk yet. But hey, you got him," he said, mustering some enthusiasm, "That's great."

"We still have to build a case against him." Gil warned.

"You will," Greg said confidently, "You'll keep me posted, right?" he asked, "I'd like to know, the minute you think it's safe."

"Yeah." Grissom said. "Listen..." There was a pause, and Greg instinctively knew that Grissom was carefully choosing his next words. "I don't know what evidence we'll uncover at this guy's place -if any- and I don't know how long it'll take, but... I could call you the minute we bring him in for questioning."

"You'd do that?"

"Sure. You can watch the interrogation, provided you keep it to yourself."

And Greg heartily agreed.

* * *

A whole day passed before Gil placed the expected call: They were bringing in their suspect.

Greg hurriedly logged the evidence he'd collected at a scene earlier that day, and sprinted to the interrogation room.

When he got there, he was surprised to find Grissom in the hallway. Greg had expected to see him inside, taking part in the interrogation process. Instead, the CSI supervisor was sitting, holding an open file on his lap and staring intently at the scene unfolding on the other side of the one-way glass.

Greg sat and waited for Gil to acknowledge his presence. When he didn't, Greg ventured a greeting.

"Hey, Grissom."

Grissom glanced at him.

"Hey," he said simply.

There was no elation or triumph in that greeting. It wasn't what Greg had expected.

"I thought you would be in there, asking the questions."

"Catherine's going to."

Grissom turned his attention back inside. Greg kept his gaze on Gil for a moment -not because he expected any further explanation from his boss but because he just didn't want to look inside just yet. But Gil's intense gaze told him that something important was happening inside, and so Greg reluctantly turned to look.

There were four people sitting around a table; Catherine and Brass had taken the seats closest to the window, leaving the other seats to two men who sat facing the window.

One of the men was talking -surely, the lawyer; and, in Greg's view, a high-priced one. It wasn't just the clothes, it was the way he quietly argued his points. He was the kind of lawyer who'd issue motion after motion to slow down an investigation until it came to a halt. He'd drain his client's money in the process, but he would undoubtedly earn his fee.

"Mrs. Robson had a reasonable expectation of privacy -" the lawyer was saying.

"Mrs. Robson is our suspect's _mother_." Brass interjected pointedly.

"She is also the legitimate owner of the house on Quest Street, Captain Brass." The lawyer replied, "Mr. Robson was staying there as a _guest_."

Greg tried to focus on their conversation, but legal wrangles bored him. Reluctantly, he turned his attention in the fourth person's direction. Greg had a clear view thanks to Brass, who had moved his seat closer to Catherine's, surely to give Gil a chance to study their suspect.

Greg took advantage of the situation.

The first thing he noticed was that the man didn't look like someone who'd kill others for a thrill. But then serial killers rarely did -that was the secret of their success.

Yet, like a true sociopath, this guy didn't seem concerned about his legal situation. He was sitting back on his chair, with his chin resting comfortably on his chest, and his hands crossed on top of his belt. His gaze seemed to be focused on the tops of his shoes. It almost looked as if he were sleeping.

Leaning forward, Greg found himself willing the man to move. Now that he had finally dared to look, Greg needed to see his face. But the man didn't have any interest in his surroundings; he was not even a spectator of the show his lawyer was putting up for him.

Even Catherine's quick description of the charges against him failed to make any impression on him. There was no indignation, and no fear.

Catherine placed a picture on the table and pushed it in his direction, probably hoping to draw his attention.

"You did this." She said.

The lawyer glanced at the picture.

"Now, that's disgusting." The lawyer said, "Mr. Robson agreed to come for questioning, but he does not have to look-"

The man's eyes moved, but looking at the picture didn't bring any reaction from him.

Grissom chose that moment to finally talk.

"His name is James B. Robson," He said.

The name meant nothing to Greg, who kept his gaze on the man.

"He's thirty-five and single-" Gil continued. He was reading from his notes, "He lives in San Francisco most of the year, but comes to Las Vegas to visit his mother -" He frowned. What he read seemed to trigger a memory, and he made a note of it on the margin of the page.

Greg turned his attention back to the room.

Catherine had started describing the process that led them to James Robson. For the first time, Robson's interest was aroused. His eyes moved in her direction.

"...Mr. Robson purchased some candles at the Omni Scent Shop," Catherine said, "Here's a copy of the receipt." She added, placing a piece of paper on the table.

"The Omni Scent is one of the finest shops in Las Vegas." The lawyer said in a slightly patronizing tone, " Of course he's made purchases there. He's a _client_."

"He's also a client at some of the _seediest_ places in Las Vegas, Mr. Wasserman." Brass replied, "Some motels... a couple of bars... Gay bars." He added.

"There is nothing criminal in that, detective."

"Of course not." Brass said, "But your client seems to have a knack for being at places where crimes are committed. We found your client's fingerprints in two different motels, in rooms where gay men were killed and mutilated."

"My client stays at a hotel now and then, when he's too tired to drive home, detective. You will find his prints in one or two hotels -along with a hundred other people's." he added. "And if that's all the evidence you have to back up your harassment of my client-"

"We didn't find Mr. Robson's fingerprints on a TV remote, Mr. Wasserman." Catherine replied, "We found them in a pool of wax. You see, your client got careless this time. He forgot to clean up after himself, and left us a souvenir. Trace amounts of wax from some expensive candles -"

Greg glanced at Grissom.

"Fingerprints on wax?"

"It was only a partial," Grissom admitted, "But the clue was in the wax itself. The candles were scented according to Robson's own specifications. They are unique."

"And they place him at the scene," Greg said.

Grissom hesitated.

"We can't prove that he left those prints on the night of the murder." he admitted, "It only helps us build a stronger circumstantial case."

Greg looked at the suspect again. He didn't have a clear view of the face yet, but there was something he could easily determine.

"What about the cleft palate? It doesn't look like he ever had one,"

Grissom's eyes gleamed.

"He was born with the condition," he said, "According to his medical records, he underwent five reconstructive surgeries in ten years."

"_Five_ surgeries?" Greg asked in surprise. "Shouldn't one have been enough?"

"It seems they botched the first two." Grissom said.

Greg winced. Then he looked back inside. "Five surgeries must have cost some serious money." He said.

Grissom nodded. "He's the stepson of Donald Robson." He said.

"Donald Robson, the millionaire?"

"The millionaire, _and_ the brother of retired judge Randolph Robson," he added pointedly.

"No wonder they've got him an expensive lawyer," Greg said. He glanced at the file on Gil's lap. "What else did you uncover?"

Grissom looked at his notes again, "Donald Robson met Las Vegas waitress Jolene Simmons in 1985." he said, "He married her a couple of months later, and then adopted her five-year-old son from a previous marriage -James. Shortly after, the corrective surgeries began."

"Wow." Greg said, "So, luckily for this guy, the stepfather had the dough to pay for the operations."

Grissom didn't reply.

Greg's gaze turned to Robson again.

"He looks ok, now." He said.

Grissom looked at Greg.

"If he is who we think he is," he said, "He's been destroying men's faces."

"_If he is who he is_?" Greg repeated, looking at Grissom. "You're not sure then?"

"The evidence points to him." Grissom conceded. "There's the fingerprints, and a few souvenirs we found at his place-"

"Souvenirs?"

"Pictures, among other things."

Greg was about to ask what kind of pictures, when their subject finally spoke.

'May I have a glass of water?'

Greg's head jerked in Robson's direction. A shiver run down his spine. He recognized the voice, even after all these years. The careful elocution, the silky undertones... Surely, the result of countless hours of speech therapy.

And then, James Robson finally lifted his face, offering a clear view of it to everyone in the room and beyond.

Greg involuntarily leant forward, then. His heart was beating wildly, and he had to master his emotions so Gil wouldn't suspect. He briefly glanced at the older man, but Gil's attention was back on the suspect. Greg looked back at Robson, hoping to see some trait that might seem familiar-

But he didn't find any.

Meanwhile, Catherine was coming back with the glass of water for Robson. Gil rose and motioned her to a side. He said something in the lowest of whispers, but she didn't show the same restraint.

"Her birthday?" she asked. "That's sick."

"Their wedding anniversary, too." Grissom said, pointing at his notes.

Catherine nodded and went back inside.

Greg watched as Robson took the glass.

"Thank you," he said politely, and then he smiled.

It was then that Greg realized there was something odd about Robson's face. It was a handsome face, but it looked as if someone had taken parts from different faces and set them together, like pieces from different jigsaw puzzles that didn't fit. A nose that was too small, eyes that were set too wide apart, cheeks that were just too high... and the uneven upper lip.

Greg wondered if the harsh lighting of the room was somehow altering his perception of the man.

"His face..." he said, "It looks... odd, doesn't it?"

"It looks like a doll's." Grissom said bluntly. "Contrary to what people might think, dolls aren't a representation of the human body."

"They really botched the surgeries." Greg said in wonder.

Gil glanced at him.

"Imagine having one face for the first five years of your life, and then having none for the next ten years -"

"It must have been traumatic," Greg agreed, "But the alternative... I mean, he _was _disfigured, Grissom."

"I'm sure that's what everybody's said to him over the years." Grissom said. He looked at Robson for a moment. "But what if-" he said. "What if all he wanted was to be accepted, just the way he was? He was obliterated, instead."

Greg frowned.

"You feel sorry for that guy?"

Grissom seemed surprised at the question.

"I'm just trying to understand him." he said, "It might help us trap him."

As if on cue, Catherine spoke again.

"You killed Arnold Monroe on the twenty-first." She said, "That date has a meaning to you, doesn't it?" she paused, long enough to get Robson's full attention, "It's your mother's birthday."

Robson smiled faintly but didn't say anything.

"Then, just a few days later, you killed Don Bronson." She looked up, "Just in time to mark your parents' wedding anniversary."

Robson's smile froze on his face.

"I had nothing else to give them." He said quietly.

"James, not another word," the lawyer said quickly.

Robson ignored his lawyer's advice. He laid his hand on top of the pictures that Catherine had placed on the table.

"Do you want me to feel sorry for them?" he asked with a smirk, "You're wasting your time." He said. He picked up a picture, "Look at him -look at his face." He said, lifting the picture so Catherine -and everybody else- could see. It was Arnold Monroe's picture, the one they'd taken from his driver's license.

It seemed that Robson wanted to make a point, but he backed off at the last minute, "You would not understand," He said scornfully, "You're pretty and blond. You've had it easy."

Catherine leant over the table.

"These men that you killed," she said, "They were attracted to _you_." She emphasized the last word, "They might have even been in love with you -"

"Yeah, well." He smiled widely, "It only shows you how dumb pretty boys can be."

Grissom shook his head.

"He's not going to feel sorry for those guys." He said. "In his mind, they all had what he could never have, despite all those surgeries."

"A pretty face?" Greg asked.

"Acceptance." Grissom said. He looked at Greg, "Put yourself in his place for a minute. Imagine having one surgery after another, only to be told that your face still isn't right." he paused for a moment. "I wonder what he sees when he looks in the mirror." He said thoughtfully.

Greg broke the silence that ensued.

"Did he really kill them to mark his mother's birthday and her wedding anniversary?"

"The dates match," Grissom said, "Remember the call he placed, early in the morning of the twenty-first? He needed the body to be discovered as early as possible, so it was in the news that very day."

"Just in time for a birthday breakfast, or a family lunch..." Greg muttered.

"Exactly," Gil agreed, "I picture him, looking at his parents' faces while they read about the murders, or as they watched TV. He must have enjoyed listening to their comments."

"Horrified comments..." Greg suggested.

"Or homophobic ones," Gil added. "Oh, and by the way," Gil said, glancing at his notes. "The pieces of silk he used to bind Monroe's hands... They were taken from an old dress of his mother's."

"Oh, shit," Greg muttered. "Does she know all this?"

"She recognized the pieces of silk herself," Gil said, "Unfortunately, after a brief talk with Mr. Wasserman, she denied ever telling us anything about the dress."

"She's protecting her son."

"Or the family name." Grissom retorted cynically. He looked back into the interrogation room for a couple of minutes, and then, to Greg's surprise, he rose from his seat, "I've seen enough," he said, "There's something I want to show you."

* * *

Grissom laid a picture on the desk and then he pushed it towards Greg.

Greg looked down.

The picture showed the face and shoulders of a young man lying against a pillow. Thin, almost skinny, with hair that was shorn at the sides, and bleached on top. Eyes turned away from the camera –and away from the man taking the picture. Maybe away from himself, too: The young man's face and upper body were covered by open gashes still dripping blood…

Except that it wasn't blood. One didn't have to be an expert to notice that the shade of red was all wrong. Someone had carefully painted the wounds on the man's face -a pretty face.

Color drained off Greg's face as he recognized himself.

Greg faltered; there was a brief moment when he thought he would break down, but he recovered quickly. His throat felt dry, but he made an effort to speak.

"He took pictures," he said hoarsely. He made a visible effort to put himself together, and his next words were almost casual, "I didn't remember that." he said.

Greg reluctantly looked up, but his gaze never reached Gil's eyes.

"When did you find out?" he asked.

"I didn't know until today." Grissom said softly.

"Where did you get this? At his mother's place?"

Gil nodded, "Stashed under his underwear, along with dozens of other portraits, very similar to this one."

"No pictures from the murders?"

"Nothing," Gil said, "But we couldn't find his computer or his cell phone, so -" he let his voice trail off.

They stared at the picture in silence.

Greg felt the need to say something. "It happened about five years ago."

"I remember that hairstyle," Gil replied quietly. He waited for Greg to continue, but the young man simply stared at his portrait.

Gil took a deep breath, then. He knew he must thread carefully and let Greg talk when and if he was ready, but there was something he needed to know, "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked gently.

Greg scoffed.

"Do you think I'd want you to know about this?" He asked without looking up.

Grissom was wondering how to reply to this, when Greg continued.

"Actually, I did try to tell you, that first night."

In the pause that followed, Grissom had time to realize that yes, Greg had tried to tell him. He'd simply assumed that the young man was having trouble with the crime because of its gay-bashing undertones.

"I'm sorry," Gil said, "I should have let you explain."

"I should have insisted," Greg countered. "But I couldn't - not with Brass there."

Grissom nodded almost imperceptibly.

"So, you knew this guy." He said after a moment.

Greg looked up. He was appalled at the implication.

"Jesus, Grissom," he said, "You don't think I'd withhold _that_ piece of information, do you?"

"I don't know." Grissom said quietly. "Would you?"

"I wouldn't." Greg said firmly. Then he lowered his voice, "You may not believe this, but I never had a real chance to look at his face, Grissom." He paused, "Not until today. I didn't even know his name –I didn't know anything. All I could remember was the way he talked -the way he carefully pronounced every word that he said."

Greg sat back, as if he wanted to put some distance from the picture and himself.

After a moment, he spoke again.

"When I saw Monroe-" he said, "It was like looking at myself, all those years ago. For a moment, I actually expected the poor guy to jump out of bed and try to wipe the paint off his face. Only this time it wasn't paint but real blood -"

"My first thought was that there was some other guy out there, playing the same game." Greg shook his head, "I guess I just didn't want to believe that someone I'd met would do something like this -kill someone, I mean." he looked up, "I knew I had to tell you, but -"

"But I didn't let you."

"And I didn't have that much to tell, anyway," Greg said. "Nothing that could be of help. But when I started to work on the crime scene, I realized there was something I could _do._"

Greg leant forward. "If this was the same guy I'd met…then he'd probably followed a pattern -one that _I_ was familiar with. I mean, apart from the fact that Monroe was dead, the rest of the scene looked exactly the same. He cleaned up after himself, but _I_ knew what kind of evidence to look for and where. He liked candlelight for instance, and so I looked for traces of wax and found them; he had the habit of stretching an arm and touching a doorframe whenever he passed one, so-"

"So you knew where to dust for fingerprints." Gil finished. There was admiration in the way he said this, and Greg seemed pleased.

Grissom had kept his gaze on the young man. "And you kept this to yourself." He said.

"I was going to tell you, Grissom. But the more evidence I collected, the more I realized we might have a conflict of interests. Like I said, I didn't know if it was the same guy, and even if he was, I would probably not recognize him. But what if he recognized _me_? If I testified as a CSI and he realized it was _me_ up there-" he paused.

Grissom mulled on this.

"His lawyer would have called for a mistrial," he said after a moment, "He would have probably claimed that we'd built our entire case on questionable evidence supplied by you."

"That's what I thought." Greg nodded. "But there was another reason for me to keep my mouth shut, too." he said slowly, "It occurred to me that if I told you what I knew, you'd hand the investigation to someone else -"

"-because having a previous knowledge of a suspect would taint my interpretation of the evidence." Grissom finished for him. "At least, that's what a defense lawyer could claim."

"I couldn't take the risk, Grissom. I didn't want anyone else handling the case, either. If anyone could catch this guy, it had to be you."

Gil looked thoughtfully at Greg.

"So, you collected the evidence," he said softly, "And then somehow, you managed to bring Catherine into the case."

Greg looked up sharply but didn't say anything. There was no use denying it.

Grissom continued, "Did you tell her about this guy?"

"No," Greg said a bit testily, "Of course, I didn't. I just told her I couldn't handle a gay-bashing crime, and she believed me." He leant forward, "She was only doing me a favor, Grissom. I needed her to process the evidence I'd collected, so nobody could claim any impropriety."

Grissom looked down at his desk. It seemed that Greg had looked at the case from every possible angle. His quick reasoning had saved their investigation, no doubt about it. And yet... it bothered him, the fact that Greg had kept this from him.

"You could have told me." He said.

"I didn't want to compromise the case." Greg shrugged, "And it worked well, too, right?"

Grissom couldn't disagree with this.

"Besides..." Greg said, and then he looked down at the desk, "It was kind of embarrassing, Grissom. I mean, I willingly put myself in a dangerous position. If anything bad had happened to me, it would have been my fault."

"That's not true." Grissom said firmly, "You didn't know this was going to happen. Listen," he paused until Greg looked up, "You were the victim here -"

"Yeah, well," Greg scoffed, "There's nothing comforting about being a victim, Grissom. I was an ass, plain and simple."

"You were not-"

Greg smiled good-naturedly.

"Are you telling me you didn't think it was stupid of me to let a stranger tie me up like that?" he asked, tilting his head at the picture on the desk, "Be honest." He added, "What was the first thought that crossed your mind when you saw this picture?"

"I just thought you had a lot to explain," Grissom said guardedly.

Actually, Grissom didn't remember what he thought, but he did remember what he felt -anger; hot, blinding anger. His hands shook as he held the picture in his hands; it suddenly dawned on him that Robson had met Greg and probably hurt him.

If Robson had been there, Gil would have picked him up and smash his face against a wall.

The anger was short-lived, but it made quite an impression on Gil. With his emotions so obviously involved, he knew he would never be able to confront Robson in a professional, objective manner. Which meant Catherine would have to handle the interrogation.

Gil didn't tell any of this to Greg. Instead, as gently as he could, he proceeded to give the young man the bad news.

"We may have to let him go." He said.

Greg looked up sharply.

"What?" he asked incredulously, "Why?" his eyes widened as another thought struck him, "Is it because of this picture?"

Gil shook his head.

"No. It has nothing to do with you. _We_ screwed up. Our warrant covered the 'search of Robson's place of residence,'" he said, "But according to his lawyer, Robson's place of residence is in San Francisco, not Las Vegas. The home we searched is the property of Jolene Robson, and everything in it, including the clothes on Robson's back, belongs to her."

"That's just a technicality-"

"It's a valid argument." Grissom countered, "Which means that every piece of evidence we collected under that warrant will be dismissed. And, since the DA won't bring charges against Robson with only the physical evidence we collected at the crime scene backing us up -"

"Please, tell me this has nothing to do with the fact that Robson's uncle's a retired judge." Greg said sarcastically.

Grissom sighed.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the judge who signed our warrant got a reprimand for condoning the harassment of a judge's nephew." he said.

Gil's casual tone irritated Greg.

"He's getting away with murder, Grissom. You're ok with that?"

"He's not getting away with anything, Greg." Gil said calmly, "Now that his fingerprints are finally in the system, investigators in San Francisco are matching them against fingerprints found at the scenes of several unsolved crimes. They've already issued a warrant for Robson's arrest in connection with a half-dozen assaults, and a murder case."

He let these words sink in Greg's mind, and then he added, "According to the cops I talked to, they can make a good case against Robson."

"Despite the fact that he's Judge Robson's nephew?"

"The judge's influence doesn't extend to San Francisco, Greg." Gil said firmly. Then he shook his head, "He'll soon realize he should have let us go ahead with our own investigation."

"What do you mean?"

"Sex crimes against homosexuals are punished with more severity in San Francisco."

Greg nodded slowly.

"So they'll get him." He said. "Good."

Greg leant back on the chair and closed his eyes. He was emotionally exhausted, but hadn't noticed until now. "Good." He added, almost to himself.

They didn't say anything for quite a while. It was Gil who broke the silence, and when he did, he spoke in the soft tone he used when he questioned a traumatized victim.

"Did he hurt you?"

Greg recognized that tone. He cautiously glanced at Grissom and recognized the look in Gil's eyes, too. Compassion.

Greg studiously looked away.

"He didn't rape me, if that's what you mean." He said simply. "He had a twisted way of doing things, and it really freaked me out, but he didn't actually harm me." He reluctantly looked at Gil again. "It was just a game." Greg said then, "A game that got out of control."

Greg wondered if Gil believed him, but he didn't ask, and Gil's expression didn't reveal anything either. With a sinking feeling, Greg realized that unless he told his story, Grissom would always imagine the worst. Greg didn't want to talk…But he didn't want his boss to use that compassionate tone again.

Greg took a deep breath and then he looked up. He tried to hold Gil's gaze, but after a moment he looked down again.

Talking would definitely be easier if he didn't have to look at his boss.

He wondered how much of his story he should tell.

"At the time, I thought condoms were the only protection I'd ever need," he said.

* * *

_At the time, Greg's personal motto had been, 'To have fun, fun, fun at all costs.'_

_That's the first thing Greg remembered, whenever he looked back in time. Five years earlier, he had pursued pleasure with single-minded determination; even working nights didn't put a damper on things. But there was nothing wrong with that; he was young; he had a right to do whatever he wanted._

_Besides –and this was something he wouldn't easily admit- he was making up for lost time._

_For most of his life, Greg Sanders had stood on the sidelines, watching others do things he could only dream of. Intellectually precocious, Greg had always been the youngest kid in every schoolroom, which had made it difficult for him to relate to his peers, who continually dismissed him as a 'baby' or as a 'nerd'._

_Greg had been a nerd in high school, and a nerd in junior college… But by the time he graduated, things had really changed ._

_The chubby kid had shed baby fat and the last remnants of childhood and insecurity. More importantly, he'd discovered sex, and with it, his true self. Moving away from his family had helped, too -his parents and sisters had always been a tad overprotective._

_How ironic, then, that just when he could finally call himself an adult, Greg had begun to act like a kid in a candy store, sampling everything on sight._

_He was having the time of his life; he was fearless..._

_Until one night, when a tall, dark-haired man approached him at the bar of the Apocalypse Club._

_A guy just like any other -that's how Greg would remember him afterwards. A handsome guy, as far as he could tell, (although the lighting at the club didn't allow for a clear view of anybody's face) A quiet-spoken man who looked good and wore nice, expensive clothes…_

_What more could one ask from a one-night stand?_

_They struck a conversation and quickly became acquainted with their first names, although Greg didn't really believed the man's name was Troy: the guy didn't immediately respond to that name. But Greg wasn't particularly bothered by this; in fact, he had lied to Troy, too: Knowing how unpopular DNA technicians were on the meat market, he'd introduced himself as a DJ at a local radio station. ._

_'Troy,' didn't mention a profession; if fact, he'd barely talked about himself, except to mention that he was an out-of-towner. After a few casual words and one dance, Troy had made it clear that sex was what he was after, not conversation. And since sex was exactly what Greg wanted too, they quickly agreed to leave the club._

_On hindsight, Greg realized how expertly Troy managed to keep his face away from the lights. Even after they left the club, Troy had steered Greg's attention away from himself, either by playfully turning away, or by pointing at something._

_He wouldn't even let Greg get close enough for a kiss; he kept saying they should wait 'til they got to the hotel -which wasn't an unreasonable request; even in a city like Las Vegas, discretion was still the best policy when it came to being gay._

_But once they got to Troy's hotel room there seemed to be no reason to stall anymore, and so, when Troy steered away from him again, Greg started to wonder if this guy was really into it after all._

_"Maybe this is a bad idea," he'd said. He turned away then, but Troy had quickly stepped in between him and the door._

_"Wait," Troy said. "I just want everything to be perfect. Besides," and he actually smirked as he added, "Where are you going to go now? You were all alone." He gently grabbed Greg by the front of his shirt but instead of pulling him closer, he held Greg at arm's length. "You are a pretty boy, Greg," he'd said, smiling faintly. "I'm glad I found you."_

_"Me, too." Greg said, flashing a smile of his own._

_"I'd like to play a game." Troy said huskily, "Would you like to play a game?"_

_Greg loved playing games and said so. Troy smiled and released him. He turned to a nearby chest of drawers._

_"I'm glad you're here." He said as he opened a drawer. "I really need this," he added, "I need something to get me through the next days-"_

_Greg's smile froze on his lips. He hoped Troy wasn't into hard drugs, because then he would have to draw the line and probably leave. But to his relief, the objects that Troy pulled from the drawer seemed innocuous enough -a couple of candles, a tube of lubricant, a tube of something he couldn't ID from a distance, a piece of some silky material - it was hard to tell since the only light on was the one closest to the door._

_Troy carefully placed the candles on top of the chest of drawers, and then he ceremoniously lighted them. When he turned, Greg smiled and pulled something from a pocket._

_"Here," Greg said, tossing a couple of sealed condoms on the bed. It was his contribution for the night._

_"Always prepared," Troy said then, "I like that." and then he smiled again._

_Mesmerized by the smile, and eager to get into the action, Greg let Troy take over. Soon, Greg found himself naked and spread-eagled on the bed. He was thrilled at the sight of his wrists tied down to the bedposts. He tentatively pulled, testing the knots, shivering at the feel of the silk rubbing against his skin. His ankles were tied down too, but not as tightly; he could bend his legs a little._

_Greg looked up expectantly, and watched as Troy shed all his clothes. For a moment, Troy's muscled back gleamed under the candlelight, and Greg liked what he saw. Everything seemed perfect for a night of fun and games._

_But once Troy got into bed with him, Greg realized that his initial impression of the man was correct. Troy wasn't really into it; he was merely acting out a part –the part of gay man. There was no real fire. Even Troy's 'equipment' had failed to impress Greg._

_Everything was turning out to be a big, disappointing mess._

_After Troy's lengthy ritualistic preparations, Greg had expected more._

_Greg lay back, resigning himself to wait. He would spring out of bed the minute Troy finished his clumsy pawing, and then he'd either go back to the club or to another disco. Or maybe he'd simply go home and get some sleep. As soon as this loser was finished-_

_But loser or not, Troy was perceptive -more perceptive than Greg had surmised- and he quickly realized that he was losing Greg's interest. Troy had evidently expected a more enthusiastic response from Greg._

_He roughly grabbed Greg's face and turned it in his direction._

_"Look at me." Troy hissed, "Look at me, pretty boy." He looked closely at Greg, studying him. "I thought you liked me." He said, "I thought you liked this."_

_Greg tried to reply, but Troy's hand on his jaw made it impossible to open his mouth._

_"But maybe I was wrong." Troy continued, "Maybe this is not what you really like. Maybe you'd rather be in pain-" He leant forward, "Am I hurting you?" he asked as he thrust into Greg's body, "Am I hurting you at all?" and Greg almost laughed, because Troy was definitely not hurting him._

_But before Greg could say anything, Troy hit him on the side of the head with his free hand. It didn't hurt, but it had come out of nowhere, and Greg was not amused._

_He managed to shake off Troy's hand._

_"Hey!" Greg said testily, "What the hell are you doing?"_

_"I asked you a reasonable question!" Troy retorted, "Am I hurting you?"_

_Actually, Troy was annoying the hell out of him, but Greg didn't say so._

_"Listen," Greg said testily, "I don't think this is -"_

_But before he could finish, he was hit, harder this time. He winced in pain, and this time Troy seemed gratified. He grabbed Greg's face again._

_"That stung, didn't it?" he asked, leaning forward until he was close enough to kiss Greg. "Didn't it?"_

_Greg looked up. Troy was showing some passion at last, only it wasn't the kind that Greg had been hoping for; there was more rage than desire in it._

_"Maybe you should be scared, pretty boy. Answer me! Are you scared?"_

_Greg had had enough of the game and wanted to say so, but a quick assessment of his situation made him pause: He was completely immobilized under a man who outweighed him considerably._

_He was not in a position to argue._

_When Troy asked yet again if he was scared, Greg reluctantly nodded. Troy seemed to back off a little. He continued his 'clumsy pawing,' but he also kept a watchful gaze on Greg._

_In the meantime, Greg quickly decided what to do. In his opinion, Troy was nothing but a bully, and Greg had dealt with bullies all his life. He'd manage. All he had to do was pretend to be scared and hurting, thus feeding Troy's little fantasies of power and control._

_Once the game was over Troy would have to let him go._

_Greg watched as Troy stumbled out of bed and went into the bathroom, presumably to discard the condom. When Troy returned, he casually stretched his arm and touched the doorframe, in a gesture reminiscent of a high-five salute._

_Greg almost laughed out loud. After such bad sex, it seemed fitting for Troy to high-five an inanimate object._

_Troy sat on the bed and looked down at Greg._

_"Did you like that?" he asked._

_"Yeah," Greg nodded evasively. "You can untie me, now."_

_Troy didn't seem to hear._

_"You know, I like you." He said wistfully, "I really do. I could spend a whole night like this." He reached out and touched Greg's cheek. It was his first spontaneous gesture. "I wish you could stay-"_

_"Yeah, well -" Greg smiled uncomfortably, "Maybe we could meet some other time -"_

_Troy withdrew his hand._

_"You don't mean that." he said flatly. He lifted his hand again, only this time he touched the silk holding Greg's left wrist down, "You'll leave, the minute I take this off. Won't you?"_

_Greg didn't reply._

_Troy touched Greg's face again, but the initial tenderness was gone; this time he seemed to be examining Greg under the faint light of the candles._

_"I bet you've always been a pretty boy." He said softly._

_"Nah," Greg scoffed. "I used to have acne-" he said. "I still have pits all over my face-"_

_"That's not ugly," Troy retorted._

_By now, Greg knew better than to argue. "All right," he said patiently_

_"You don't know what ugly is." Troy insisted._

_"Fine," Greg muttered._

_But the young man's compliance seemed to anger Troy._

_"You don't know." he said, "But I do." He released Greg's face. "Ugly people shouldn't be allowed to live and have other ugly children-"_

_"That's, hum, pretty extreme," Greg replied, "Beauty's in the eye of the beholder, you know."_

_Troy scoffed. "That's easy for you to say." he said, "If you knew-" he hesitated. He glanced at the chest of drawers and then at Greg, "I will show you," he said with sudden determination._

_To Greg's dismay, Troy sprang out of bed again. He went back to the chest of drawers and picked something he'd left there -the little tube Greg didn't ID before, and an extra piece of silk. When Troy turned, he was busily turning the silk into a tight ball. Then, with cat-like quickness, he came back to the bed and stuffed the silk in Greg's mouth._

_That was the last thing Greg remembered clearly._

_He was vaguely aware of Troy's frenzied movements, and of his incessant babbling -he was saying something about pretty boys, but it was hard to tell; his speech had become somewhat slurred._

_But the one thing Greg was really conscious of was his own fear, and the only way to deal with it was by pretending it didn't exist. Greg turned his gaze to the ceiling then. He focused on the darkest corner, away from the lights and the shadows and the movements, and away from the sticky wetness that was being smeared on his body._

_Too late did Greg realize that by feeding one of Troy's fantasies, he'd simply made him crave the satisfaction of another one._

_Greg didn't know how long he lay there, staring at the ceiling. But when movement ceased at last, he dared to look again._

_Troy was standing in the middle of the room. He was breathing harshly, and shaking as if he were cold, although he was actually sweating profusely. His hands were stained with red._

_Greg glanced down at himself, then. His body was covered by red gashes that made him look like a victim of torture. Some of the markings looked more like carefully-drawn tattoos, while others were mere smudges, but the point was that Troy had left very few spots clean._

_Even Greg's genitals hadn't escaped Troy's attention; they were a red mess._

_Greg gagged. He started shaking too, and this spurred a response from Troy, who must have thought Greg was choking on the silk. Troy quickly pulled out the tight ball out of Greg's mouth._

_"Breathe!" he cried, "Come on, breathe!"_

_Greg was coughing violently. He began pulling at his restraints, so fiercely that the silk cut into his skin._

_"Take them off!" Greg groaned, "Take them off, now!"_

_"No," Troy said uncertainly, "I can't do that." He glanced at the silk in his hand, and for a few terrifying seconds, Greg thought Troy would stuff it in his mouth again._

_"You gotta let me go," he urged, "I'm getting a cramp, here."_

_Surprisingly, this prompted Troy to obey. He reached out to untie Greg's wrist… Only to stop again._

_"I thought you wanted to be with me." he pouted._

_'In your dreams, you freak.' Greg thought, though he wisely refrained from saying it out loud. He looked at Troy. Troy was a sick man. A bully, Greg thought firmly. A coward-at-heart bully._

_Greg forced himself to speak calmly. "Listen," he said, "You've gotta let me go; my friends are waiting for me."_

_"What friends?" Troy scoffed, "You were all alone," he said, "I watched you for over an hour; there was no one there with you."_

_"We made a bet," Greg replied brazenly, "I told them someone would pick me up before the night was over. They kept on the sidelines, watching until you came along."_

_It was a stupid story, but it made Troy hesitate. A coward._

_"They gotta be waiting." Greg insisted. "You can come with me if you want." He added, "You could meet my friends -"_

_"I don't need friends," Troy mumbled. After a moment, he half-heartedly tugged at Greg's restraints, but didn't seem to know how to undo the knots. He rose again._

_Greg's_ _heart sank._

_"You gotta let me go," he insisted._

_Troy picked up something from a drawer and then he turned. He had a knife in his hand._

_Greg's eyes widened. He opened his mouth to scream-_

* * *

"He used the knife to cut the silk," Greg said. "He really enjoyed scaring the hell out of me, the son of a bitch." he added with a scowl. Then he shook his head, "God, my hands were shaking so badly while I put on my clothes -"

Grissom's own hands were shaking, but he'd kept them under the desk while Greg told his story.

Greg looked in his direction.

"Troy wanted me to stay and take a shower, can you believe that? I just ran out of there. I didn't care if anyone saw me. I was lucky, though," he added, "I found a cabbie who didn't even blink when he took a look at me; he said he'd seen worse during spring break in Miami." he chuckled at the memory.

"When I got home I shut the door and every window -I was _spooked_, Grissom. I felt like I was in one of those slasher movies; the kind where just when you think you're safe, wham! The killer's right behind you." He smiled again.

Grissom didn't smile back. He didn't find anything remotely amusing about the story he'd just heard.

Greg's smile didn't waver. He was determined to downplay the drama.

"The next day, I told my closest friends," he said, "You know, as a cautionary tale. But they weren't that impressed; some of them actually wanted to _meet_ Troy. Or, Robson, I should say."

"Anyway," Greg continued, "The more I talked about this guy, the more I realized that someone should do something about him -you know, tell him that his games weren't that funny. So, I went back to the hotel -"

"You did?" Grissom asked.

"Yes. But he was already gone. I tried to play CSI," Greg smiled self-deprecatingly, "But it got me nowhere; Troy -or Robson- paid in cash, stayed clear of all the security cameras -the few that were working... And there was nothing left in the room, either. He'd definitely cleaned up after himself. And when I tried to get a description, no one would give me one. All they said was that he was 'the quiet type'. So, I gave up."

Greg looked up, "I know I should have done more," he admitted, "I should have filed a complaint with the police, but… even my friends thought my story was stupid -"

"There was nothing for the police to do in this case." Grissom said matter-of-factly, "The sex was consensual."

Greg flushed and looked down.

Oblivious to Greg's reaction to his words, Grissom continued.

"So," He said, "Five years ago, Robson was only simulating the attacks, and painting the wounds was enough to sate him." he paused for a moment. "What about the date? Did this happen on the twenty-first or-"

"No," Greg said, "It was during the Christmas holidays. It had nothing to do with his mother's birthday or her wedding anniversary. But he did say something about having to meet his family. He didn't look too thrilled about it."

"And that's what he meant when he said he needed _it_ to get him through the next days-" Gil mused aloud. "In order to face his family, he needed to get rid of his hostility first."

"Wow. Talk about weird ways of dealing with one's anxiety, huh?" Greg said ironically. Then a sudden thought occurred to him, "But what about the assaults in San Francisco?" he asked, "How do they fit in?"

Grissom shrugged.

"My guess? His mother or his stepfather dropped by for a visit, now and then."

Greg shook his head.

"I'm glad that this case going to San Francisco, Grissom."

"Me, too."

Greg leant back in his chair and closed his eyes. He seemed to relax for the first time.

"You know, for years I tried to downplay the events of that night. If I ever talked about 'Troy', it was to laugh at him -and at myself, for being afraid of such a loser. But like it or not, what happened that night changed my life. He's one of the reasons why I started going to the gym -I didn't want to look like easy prey anymore. In case I met him again, I mean."

"I also stopped going out on blind dates." Greg continued, "If I went out at all, it was only because my friends had vouched for the guys. 'Safe referrals, we called them," he smiled at his own words. "Or I'd just sleep with friends... or friends of my friends -"

Grissom listened to this and wondered if he should be jealous. Shaking this thought off, he simply said, "Well... You're safe, now."

Greg opened his eyes. For a brief moment, he had forgotten who he was talking to; this was his boss _and_ one of those guys he slept with.

He stared at Gil for quite a while before he spoke again.

"Grissom -" he started.

But for some reason, he couldn't say more. He looked down, only to find himself staring at his portrait. At least, it offered him something to talk about.

"What are you going to do with Robson's picture collection?" he asked.

"You mean the pictures his lawyer called, 'A collection of innocent college pranks'?" Gil asked sardonically, "We'll have to hand them back," he shrugged, "I wouldn't be surprised if Robson burned down every piece of evidence we collected."

"Well, good." Greg said casually, "Tell him to start with "Exhibit 'A'," he added, pushing the picture towards Grissom.

Grissom didn't touch it; he kept his gaze on Greg, who studiously looked away.

"You know -" Greg said quietly, "Of all the things that happened today... this is the worst." He said, "Having you look at this picture, I mean."

Grissom shifted in his seat. He was obviously choosing his words with care.

"Greg... it's all right -" He started. He wanted to reassure the young man, but didn't know exactly how to do this. Every phrase he thought of seemed inadequate, "It could have happened to anyone. I just wish-"

But Gil didn't finish what he wanted to say: That he wished Greg had told him all about 'Troy' from the beginning -regardless of the effect it could have on their investigation. They were more than mere coworkers now. Greg should have turned to him for advice and comfort, and trust him to make the right decision about it.

Instead, Greg had put the interests of the lab ahead of his own -which was very admirable, except that in the process, he'd made it clear that to him, Gil was first and foremost, his _boss_.

The intimacy they'd shared in the last months didn't really mean anything.

Gil looked up. He still hadn't said anything that could help Greg.

"Are you Ok?" he asked. It was a stupid question, but it was all he could think of.

Greg took a deep breath.

"Yeah," he said at last, "Yeah, I am ok. It's just -"

"Yes?"

Greg paused. He seemed on the verge of saying something… only to back down again.

"Nothing." He muttered.

Grissom didn't believe it was 'nothing,' but he didn't press him to continue. Greg would talk when he felt confident enough to do it.

"So," Greg said, "The case is closed."

"I believe so, yes." he said quietly, "We'll be hearing from San Francisco authorities in a day or two, but-" he shrugged slightly, "Our part is over."

Greg made an effort to smile.

"So, this means I can come back to the night shift." he said, "Right?"

"Of course. Just finish off the cases you're working on with Nick and Warrick."

"Will do." Greg said good-naturedly.

They stared at each other.

Greg broke the silence, "I... hum, better get started, then." He said, rising, "I was logging some evidence when I got your call, so maybe I should-" and he tilted his head towards the hallway.

"Of course," Grissom said. But just before Greg turned, he added, "Greg? If you need to talk, then we can -"

"Thanks." Greg interrupted, "But you must be busy," he added, glancing at the files on the desk.

Greg obviously didn't want to talk, and Grissom reacted accordingly.

"I guess I have a couple of things to do." He admitted, touching a file.

"I'll get going, then," Greg said. "Oh, and thanks for... you know -" he added, glancing at the picture again.

Greg hesitated when he reached the doorway, but for only a second. Then, he resolutely walked out of the office.

Grissom watched him go, and then he simply stared at the empty doorway.

He did have things to do -starting with a return to the interrogation room- but he just couldn't muster the energy to move.

All he could do was sit and reflect on the fact that for the first time in weeks, Greg had ended their conversation without adding an invitation to go back to his place.

* * *

TBC

Thank you for reviewing…


	19. Chapter 19

DECISIONS

Chapter 19

A few hurtful truths might ruin Gil & Janice's seemingly perfect friendship.Greg is avoiding Grissom, but why?

Romance, slash

(Nzdeb wanted a romantic moment, so I included a little scene at the end…)

* * *

Janice looked up and smiled at the waiter. The young man set a fondue pot on the table, and then ceremoniously handed her a fork. 

"Thank you," she said. She was anxious to dig in, but she waited until Gil got his own fork.

She dipped a cube of bread in the fondue, and then she delicately ate it.

"Mmmmh," she swooned, "It brings back memories, doesn't it?" She smiled. "Those fondue-and-wine parties that Carly used to organize, back in college -"

"I never went to those," Gil said as he, too, sampled the fondue. "This is good." he said, "Thanks for the invitation."

Janice smiled at himwhile munching on the gooey delicacy.

They had barely seen each other for almost a week, but now that Gil had solved his most pressing case, he had finally been able to take a day off. They had spent it together.

Janice's vacations werewinding down; soon she would be back in Oregon, working fifteen-hour shifts again. She could hardly wait.

As much as she had enjoyed Las Vegas, she just couldn't imagine living here for long; the city was filled with too many temptations. When someone told her she could actually drink alcohol while walking down the streets in Las Vegas, she was reminded of a line from an old song, '_this could be heaven or this could be hell_…'

So, no, she would not miss the city… but she would definitely miss Gil.

She smiled again. There were a couple of things she wanted to do before she left Las Vegas. Taking Gil to dinner was one…

…Butting into his love life was the other.

"You're welcome," she said, and then, as casually as she could, she added, "I only wish Greg had come too."

Gil pretended to be engrossed on his food.

"He was busy."

"He was busy," Janice repeated, "Or you just didn't ask him to come." And she fixed a withering look on Gil -the kind of look that made burly cops in Oregon squirm uncomfortably until they finally admitted messing with the evidence at a crime scene.

Gil didn't exactly squirm, but he ended up admitting he hadn't told Greg about the invitation.

"I was hoping you'd focus on me for a change." Gil explained, fixing his own withering look on her, "You tend to pay an inordinate amount of attention to Greg."

She scoffed.

"Aw, you want me to believe you're jealous. How sweet of you." She looked attentively at him, "Do you really want my full attention?" she asked, and to Gil's surprise, she half-rose from her seat and leant forward until her face was just a few inches away from his. "Here, is this enough?" and she stared at him as if he were the most fascinating man in the world.

Gil pulled slightly away.

"Now you're overdoing it." he scowled.

"I'm just interested in _you,_ Gil. How are _you_?"

"I'm fine," He replied, "And would you please sit back?" he glared, "You're dipping your breasts in the cheese."

She laughed, and then she sat back.

"You're right," she said after a moment, "I do pay too much attention to your Greg. What can I say? I like to have him around. And so do you; your face lights up whenever he's around."

He scoffed.

"My face doesn't -"

"Yes, it does," she retorted. "Which reminds me," she added, "I talked to Bernie last night. He says the guys agreed to take two weeks off in September, just like you wanted. Our fishing trip is all set -"

"Great."

"- and he says Greg can come along, too."

"And we're back to Greg again," Gil muttered under his breath. "Fine." He said aloud.

She narrowed her eyes.

"Does that mean you're bringing him with you?" she asked.

"On a _fishing_ trip?" he asked sarcastically, "A boring fishing trip on a cold Michigan lake, with a bunch of 50-and-60-somethings as sole company? No."

"Why not? He might like the idea. Will you at least ask him?"

"I don't think so. And would you please stop telling everyone about Greg?"

"I haven't told everyone – I told Bernie, and only because he wanted to include his new girlfriend on our trip. I said, sure, as long as Gil's allowed to bring his boyfriend, too."

Gil opened his mouth to remind her –yet again- that Greg wasn't his boyfriend, but there was no use telling her.

"Speaking of which-" Janice continued, "I was wondering if you'd like to come to Oregon, next month. You and Greg, I mean."

"What's the occasion?"

"No occasion. I'd just like to play hostess for a change. I'll redo my guest room for you two; I'll do a little dusting, do a little cooking..."

"You don't cook," Gil retorted.

"I'll do a little defrosting and reheating, then." she amended, "I'll be the perfect hostess, too: I promise to wear earplugs every night, so you don't have to hold back on the moaning and screaming." She smiled widely. "So? Would you like to come?"

He had started to say they couldn't come, but changed his mind at the last moment.

"N-fine." He mumbled.

"Nnn-good." She said, gently mocking him. "Seriously, though; would you bring Greg? I think he needs the time off just as much as you do."

"I'll talk him into it," Gil said, mostly to get her off his back. He had the feeling that she wasn't finished, though. She had a look in her eye that he knew well.

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, and then she cleared her throat.

"You know…" she started, "I talked to Greg the other day -"

"Here we go," Gil muttered under his breath, "The other day?" he asked casually, "Or you mean the other night, when you used your feminine wiles to get our lead detective to abandon his duties?"

"You mean, _charming_ Captain Brass?" she asked, batting her eyelashes. "Ah, if I told you -"

"I don't want to know," he said quickly.

"Oh, you're such a prude!" she chuckled, "Fine, I won't tell you. But you should know _he_ is coming down to Oregon next time he has a weekend off."

"Good for you."

"Thanks." She said. "So, as I was saying before you interrupted me in the hopes that I would forget what I was going to say… I talked to Greg the other day."

"So?" Grissom asked, still in a casual tone, "Did he tell you how sorry he is for me?"

Janice's smile wavered, but she recovered quickly.

"No," she replied indignantly, "He didn't. In fact… I think he likes you, Gil. A lot."

Gil was saved from having to answer by the waiter's arrival. The young man deftly placed small salad bowls and removed the fondue pots. He also filled their glasses with cold water –Gil's choice. Janice had wistfully looked at the wine list, but Gil had been adamant about not having any at their table.

Gil stared expressionlessly at his friend. They had spent the day together, doing the kind of things they did when they were in college; they'd gone to a park, they'd visited art exhibitions and bookstores… Safe stuff, in short. They had stuck to safe activities and safe conversations, and Janice had mentioned Greg only fleetingly –which was why their day together had been a success.

He should have known it would not last.

"Listen," she said when the waiter left, "I know you don't like me to say these things, but -"

"Then don't say anything." Grissom said reasonably.

"But," she repeated, more forcefully, "We need to talk. Please," she added more gently.

Gil sighed.

"Go ahead," he said reluctantly.

She seemed to be choosing her next words with care. She leant forward.

"So, I talked to Greg and… I think he genuinely likes you."

He nodded cautiously. So far, so good.

"Really," she insisted, "I think he's fond of you."

Grissom smiled faintly.

"I believe you." He said, "He's a nice guy."

"Well… If you told him that you love him, I think he -"

"I almost did," Grissom interrupted quietly. He chuckled when he saw the look on her face. Her mouth was open, but she couldn't quite articulate a single world.

"Y-you did?" she asked at last, "When?"

"A few weeks ago." He said, almost smugly. He had taken her by surprise her, and he knew it. But when he saw how eager she looked, and how obviously hungry for details she was, he realized he had to give her a warning, "I said, 'almost', Janice."

"Hey, it's a start," she said excitedly, "So? What did you say? What did you do? More importantly, what did _he_ do to make you almost say it?"

He frowned as he tried to remember.

"He didn't do anything," he said, "We were just watching TV -"

"Gay porn?"

"No," he glared. "There was a show on bugs, and -"

Her eyebrows rose.

"_Bugs_?" she asked incredulously.

"Well, I know it doesn't sound as enthralling as gay porn, but -"

"Well, I don't know," she said thoughtfully, "I once saw a couple of slugs 'doing it'… I've got confess it put me in the mood." She blinked, "But that's another story." she leant forward, "So, you were watching bugs on TV… go on." she urged.

"So, hum, we were watching this show, and well -" he paused. He didn't quite know how to continue the story, and for the first time he wondered why he'd even bothered to mention it in the first place. But when he noticed Janice's eagerness, he knew why: She wanted him to do something about Greg, and he hoped this little tale would somehow placate her.

"Go ahead!" she prompted him again, "I'm not a prude; you can tell me. You started…?" she said, motioning him to continue, "…Kissing? …Fondling each other? …Su-"

"All right, all right," he interrupted, "I'll tell you. We were kissing," he admitted, "We, hum, were really getting into it, and, all of a sudden, I had this…_need_ to tell him -you know."

"Oh, boy," she whispered.

"So, I opened my mouth and said, 'Greg, I-'"

"And?" she urged.

"And just as I was about to say _it_…" He smiled ruefully, "I heard Johnnie say, in that old, patronizing tone of his, _Unless we act immediately, human presence in the Amazon will lead to the complete obliteration of its fauna_."

She stared at him. Gil had perfectly mimicked Johnnie's voice. It was eerie.

"The BBC Interview -" she said

"And the words that got him fired." He finished.

"Oh, damn." she muttered, "That must have, hum, _deflated_ your enthusiasm, so to speak."

Grissom scoffed gently.

"To me, it was like a warning," he admitted. "You know, '_Don't say anything_', " he said, mimicking John again, "Or '_Remember what happened last time you said you loved somebody'_. Cautionary words from beyond the grave, so to speak."

"You should have turned off the TV." she said reasonably.

"I did." he said softly, "But not immediately. I was looking at John and remembering how passionate he was about the protection of the Amazon. That project ended up destroying him, but for a little while it made him happy. When I saw him that day…" he hesitated, "I guess it was like having him alive, in that room."

She gaped.

"Oh, no." she whispered.

"What?"

"You still love him." She said. She paused, as if to give him a chance to deny it. When he didn't, she continued, "I used to wonder about it, I _asked_ you about it, but I didn't really believe it. I _can't_ believe it." she added, "Not after so many years, Gil. Not after the things he did to you."

"He didn't -"

"He was a jerk," she said harshly, "A heartless bastard."

Gil didn't say anything, but the anger that flashed in his eyes, though brief, was too obvious to miss.

She looked closely at him.

"Oh, you don't like it when I call him a jerk, do you." She challenged, "Jesus, Gil. You're defending him, after all this time-"

"After all this time, you expect me to hold a grudge against him?" he said reasonably. "I can't be angry at him forever."

"Does that mean you have to live the rest of your life under his shadow?" she retorted. She reached for her wineglass, but hastily put it back when she realized it was filled with water. "Damn," she muttered. "I need a drink." She vaguely glanced at the nearby tables.

"I'm not angry at him, Janice." Gil said softly.

Janice merely stared back at him. They were looking silently at each other, when their waiter came back, bearing their main courses. He fussed over them, making small conversation. It took him a while to realize that they were ignoring him, and when he did, he wisely left them alone.

Once alone, Gil broke the silence.

"I don't want to fight."

She sighed. Her anger was gone, too.

"Me, neither," she said. "But we need to talk, Gil."

"Just leaveJohn out of this," Gil said quietly. "Please."

It took her a moment, but at last she yield to his wishes.

"Ok." She said. She tried a little smile, "Look, can I say what I wanted to say, before I put my foot in my mouth?"

"If you're going to say what I think you're going to say, then you better take off your very expensive shoes."

"I took them off the minute I sat," she retorted, "They were killing me."

Grissom scoffed. Janice always found a way to disarm him.

"Go ahead," he said, in a resigned tone.

"You love Greg," she said, "You said so. Why don't you do something about it? Just… talk to him. If you let him know how you feel about him -"

"Janice," Grissom interrupted. He took a deep breath. He didn't want to discuss this; nothing good would come out of it. But she was looking expectantly at him, and so he tried to explain, "I can't tell him."

"But why?" she insisted, "He's a sweet man; he-"

"It doesn't matter," Gil replied, "I just can't do it. Look… know you mean well. You care about me, and I'm grateful, but…" he hesitated. "You're just not being realistic, here. You're just a romantic at heart, and -"

"Me?" she interrupted indignantly. "Me, a romantic?"

"You are," He smiled indulgently, "You've always wanted me to fall in love and get married, live in a little house with white fences, adopt a couple of kids -"

"Now you're making fun of me," she mumbled resentfully.

"I'm not," he said. "But I know you." He gave her a mild look of disapproval, "You're the only person who's ever set me up on blind dates, did you know that? Even living miles away didn't deter you; after I left Chicago, guys would suddenly drop by the lab and say, 'Hi, I'm Dr. so-and-so; Dr. Janice Mahoney says you and me might hit it off.' " Gil shook his head, "You seemed _obsesse_d with the idea of seeing me settle down with somebody."

"And that was bad?" she retorted.

"Frankly, yes." he replied, "It was more than a little disturbing, seeing you act like a concerned mother -"

"Well, someone had to do something," she said sarcastically, "Since your real mother couldn't care less -"

Color drained from Gil's face. He stared incredulously at Janice, who briefly closed her eyes in an 'Oh, shit' gesture. She had crossed into dangerous territory, and she knew it.

She rushed to take his hand.

"Gil, I'm so sorry -"

Gil had quickly put himself together. He only stared expressionlessly at her.

"I shouldn't have said that." She said.

"Why not?" he said casually, "It's the truth, anyway."

"Oh, shit," she said breathlessly. She wished Gil would fling a few angry words at her. Seeing him so calm was more disturbing.

"I am really sorry." She said.

He carefully removed his hand from hers.

"It's ok," he said gently. His eyes told a different story, though. There was a sudden emptiness in them that alarmed her.

"You're doing it again," she said, taken aback. "You're putting a distance between us, aren't you? It's what you did when you left the hospital, all those years ago. You'd told me things about yourself… Do you remember?"

"How could I forget?" he retorted, "You keep reminding me."

"How could I forget?" he retorted, "You keep reminding me."

"I don't want that to happen again, Gil." She said, "Keeping things inside is what put you in the hospital, in the first place."

"Things have changed since then. I'm not a kid, anymore, in case you haven't noticed."

"You haven't grown up that much," she retorted. "I bet you're still tormented by the same issues."

Grissom leant forward.

"You should stop dwelling on the past, Janice." He said, "I've done a couple of good things since then, you know; I helped catch a serial killer a few days ago -"

"I know you're good at your job, Gil. It's your personal life that's got me worried."

"Then you should stay out of it; I don't meddle in your own life -"

"Since when?" she scoffed, "For years, you've been after me for smoking and drinking!"

"That's different. Smoking can kill you."

"So, what is it to you? It's my life! At least, _I_ am living it to the fullest!"

They held each other's gaze for just a second, and then, embarrassed by their outburst, they both looked away.

Grissom couldn't believe they were having this conversation today, of all days. It had been a great day; perfect for friends -and for romance, too. Looking at the happy couples surrounding him in that restaurant, he could almost believe what Janice was saying.

He could almost picture himself bringing Greg here and telling him that he loved him… Hadn't he fantasized about it often enough? Of course, he had. And in every fantasy, Greg had always said that he loved him, too.

But Gil had always kept a sense of reality –and thank God he had, for things had changed between Greg and him. The young man had been avoiding him, these past days. It wasn't something Gil wanted to mention, but at the same time, he wished he could tell Janice about it. It would at least shut her up.

He could have told her that ever since Robson had been caught, Greg had stopped calling Gil at all hours of the day, which could only mean that every time Greg had called in the past week or so, he had only been trying to pump Gil for information on the case. It was a cynical point of view, but it certainly made sense.

Then, there was the fact that ever sincethat guy Timscall, Greg had not asked Gil to drop by. It seemed someone else required all his attention now, and it wasn't too difficult to guess who.

Grissom was glad that he could look dispassionately at these facts and accept them. He wished he could tell Janice, but he didn't think her reaction would be as unemotional.

Frankly, toburden her with yet another tale of broken dreamsseemed unfair, too.

He took a deep breath.

"I don't want a relationship, Janice." he said, "But if I ever wanted to complicate my life any more than it already is, Greg would be the last person I'd want to drag into it."

She stared at him for a moment. Then she silently shook her head.

"Disappointed?" he asked sarcastically.

"What do you think?" she retorted.

"Your food's getting cold," he said, turning his attention back to his beef salad.

She glanced down at her own plate. The big slab of meat she'd ordered was turning an unappealing grayish color. Still, she cut a big chunk and ate it, out of spite and mainly to needle Gil, who had watched disapprovingly as she ordered it.

But her love for Gil prevailed. She wanted him to be happy, damn it.

"Tell him." She said abruptly.

Grissom stopped chewing. He couldn't believe she would insist on this.

"Just tell him, Gil. What's the worst that could happen?"

He took his time chewing and swallowing.

"Well?" she prompted. He looked at her, but didn't say anything. She was not going to be deterred by his silence, "He's fond of you." She said with renewed energy, "He admires you. If he knew that you love him, I'm sure he'd-"

"Of course, he would," Grissom said, "It's not like he's going to say no to the boss."

"Maybe," she conceded, "But you'd be together, at least."

"You don't understand." He said, "Janice, if I started a relationship, I wouldn't know what to do; I'd make a mess out of it, just like I did with John."

"Greg isn't Johnnie."

"But I'm still me," he said. "Look. You've blamed John all this time, but I was to blame, too. I needed too much; poor Johnnie couldn't handle it. He said I was like a bottomless pit; that what I needed was a father, a brother, and a lover, all rolled up in one. I learned my lesson; I prefer to keep Greg at a distance." he said firmly. "It's safer."

"That's a coward's attitude and you know it," she retorted. She waited for him to protest, but when he didn't, she added, "He could get to love you, and you don't even want to try-"

He mused on Janice's words. Then he shook his head.

"I don't want him to love me." He said.

"How can you say that?" she asked. "Why wouldn't you want that?"

"Because it's people who love you who always end up telling you how much you've disappointed them." He said pointedly.

She blinked.

"And what is it that you want, then?" she replied, "Unconditional acceptance?"  
"It would be nice," he admitted, looking at her in the eye, "From my so-called friends, at least."

Janice picked up her glass of water, and this time she actually cursed when she noticed the water.

She took a deep breath.

"You know," she said, "We're funny, you and me. Anyone looking at us would think we have this great friendship. We've remained in contact after all these years; we talk on the phone, we e-mail each other -everything's fantastic. But whenever we spend some time together… Things start to go wrong."

"We should stay away, then," Gil replied.

She smiled bitterly.

"Yeah, I guess. If it depended on _you_, we'd never even talk on the phone or e-mail each other." She leant forward., "Do you want to know something? I don't drink that much, and I don't smoke that many cigarettes. But whenever you e-mails start dwindling down, I write and tell you that I'm off the wagon, and presto! you start writing again. You start caring again."

Gil gazed down. He'd obviously never suspected any of this.

"It's childish of me." Janice said, "But I can't help it. I'm afraid of losing contact, Gil. I have the feeling that if I do, you'll simply vanish without a trace."

"That's very melodramatic of you." He said softly.

"It's not. You left Chicago overnight. The next thing I knew you had a new job in a different city -"

"I had to do it." Gil said, "You know that."

She sighed.

"Yes. You couldn't stay in John's city. Everything always comes back to him"

Gil put his fork down.

"Poor Johnnie." He said regretfully.

She was surprised.

"_Poor_ Johnnie?"

"Do you think he wanted to end up with a bullet in his brain, Janice?"

She gulped.

"No." she said. "I keep forgetting that he did what he did. I've been so angry at him all these years…" she looked at Gil, "I lost my best friend because of him. I hated him for that."

Gil stared at her.

"Then there's something you should know." he said quietly. I didn't leave just because of him."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't want to stay and watch you go from one guy to another, each one of them worse than the last." He said softly. "I left Chicago because I felt guilty about you; I couldn't help thinking that if I'd been able to love you, then you wouldn't have gone out and made all those mistakes."

She stared back at him, as if she didn't understand what he was saying. When she finally did, her reaction was one of indignation.

"I never -" she started, "I never blamed you. Not once. I never even -"

"I know." He said gently. "I never said you did."

Her gaze remained on him, but when she felt her eyes start filling with tears, she finally looked away. She picked up her glass and gulped half of her water.

She grimaced.

"Funny." She said, "Cold water burns your throat just like alcohol."

Grissom reached for her hand.

"Janice," he said.

She looked up at him.

"Don't say you're sorry," she said hastily. "I wanted you to open up, and you did."

"Ok," he said gently.

They held each other's hand for a moment.

She tried to smile.

"So, those men I chose," she said, "They were bad, huh?"

"Yes." He said gently, "They were."

"Yeah." She nodded, "You're right. They were awful. I mean, they were ok for a night or two, but in the long run… Ugh."

"I know what you mean," Gil replied, and this drew a reluctant chuckle from her.

"Yeah," she said gently, "You do."

Janice looked down at the hand grasping hers.

"Did I drove you away, Gil?"

"No." he said, "I left because… Because I couldn't handle life. I just fled. I'm sorry I did. I wouldn't have told you this-" he added, "Except that… I don't want you to hate John."

She looked up. She studied him for a long time.

"I never had a better friend than you." She said. "All I've ever wanted is to see you happy. Is that stupid of me?"

"Oh, Jan," he sighed. "It's not. I know you care, it's just… I can't do the things you want me to. And you know, I _am_ happy, in my own way. I do good. I like my job, I have friends -" he smiled. "That is enough for me. I wish you'd approve."

She nodded almost imperceptibly.

"All right," she said.

"Will you stop worrying, then?" he asked.

"Do I have a choice?" she asked dryly.

"No." He said, releasing her hand. "Go ahead, eat your artery-clogger meat."

She narrowed her eyes, but she obediently turned her attention to her food.

"By the way," he said after a moment, "I'll come to Oregon. If your invitation's still standing, that is."

"It is," she said promptly. She hesitated, "What about Greg? The invitation is for the two of you, you know."

"He's not coming." Gil said firmly.

"Oh, Gil," she sighed.

"Look." he said, "He's sorry for me,youknow that. I should be angry at myself for taking this type of charity, but… I'm not. Still, I try to be realistic. He's got his own life, his own friends. One of these days, he'll go back to them. He'll stop calling me -"

"If he stops calling you, then maybe you should start calling _him_." she said reasonably.

He sighed.

"Janice," he said, "You're doing it again."

"Ok, fine." she muttered. She ostentatiously selected an especially fatty piece of meat to nibble on, just to get back at him. He narrowed his eyes when he saw her do that. "What?" she asked, holding back a snicker.

They were playing their little game again.

Janice smiled to herself. They would be ok. Their friendship would survive. As for the rest…

Well, Greg was her friend, too. She could ask him to come to Oregon if she wanted.

* * *

Grissom entered his home. He didn't turn any lights until he was in the kitchen. He dropped his car keys on the counter, and after a brief hesitation, he dropped his cell phone, too.

He opened the fridge and picked up a bottle of water, but he didn't immediately uncap it. He leant back on the counter and put the bottle against his forehead. The coolness felt good.

He was feeling feverish, uncomfortable. Maybe a migraine was coming up -

The thought made him scoff. He'd noticed how a migraine always appeared when he was under an emotional strain. A psychosomatic symptom? Perhaps. He had yet to study the subject –he really didn't want to know.

He brought down the bottle and uncapped it, and while he did this, he glanced at the phone on the counter. '_Call him_,' Janice had said as a parting shot tonight. The last word, as always, had been hers.

Gil looked away. He took a swig from the bottle, and then another. He was stalling. He wanted to make that phone call -he had to- but at the same time, he dreaded the outcome. If somebody else answered…

_Well,_ he thought, _if somebody else answers, then you'll know for sure. And you'll know what to do. _

This thought gave him the impulse he needed.

His heart pounded wildly as he waited for Greg –or anyone else- to take the call.

" 'llo?" a sleepy voice answered. Greg's.

Grissom glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost one O'clock –too late to be making calls.

"Shit." Grissom muttered, "I woke you up."

"Mmmh? Grissom?"

"Yeah."

In the brief silence that followed, Grissom pictured Greg doing what he always did when a phone call woke him up: he rubbed his eyes, he glanced at the clock next to his bed, and then he used his free hand to smooth down his hair, as if the caller could actually see the mess on top of his head. Then, while he cradled the phone between his jaw and his shoulder, he looked around and picked up whatever he might have dropped in his sleep –a book he'd been reading, a pillow and/or the breath mints he kept underneath -

Gil smiled as he imagined Greg doing all this.

"D' you need me?" Greg asked.

Grissom blinked. What kind of question was that?

"I thought you were off tonight," Greg added.

"I am."

"Oh." Greg said cautiously. "I thought you were calling about a case."

"No." Gil said, "No, I was…" _I was checking up on you, Gre_g. "I was talking to Janice today, and -"

"Ah, you saw her?"

"We spent the day together."

"Wait," Greg said, "Don't tell me: You went to a park and spent the day reading and listening to music -"

"How did you know that?"

"She told me you used to do that. So," Greg added, and his voice sounded a bit strained, as if he were making some effort, (picking up something from the floor, maybe?) "Did you apologize to her for being such a bad host?"

Gil smiled.

"Yeah, I did. She forgave me –she always does." Gil hesitated for just a second, "But, hum…" he gulped, "She did give me a hard time while we were having dinner"

"Why?"

"Well," Gil hesitated again. "She wanted you to come over too, but I didn't tell you."

"Oh."

Gil wished he could see Greg's face right then. One look, and he'd know if Greg was hurt about not being invited –or if he didn't really give a damn.

Greg didn't make any comment.

"I told her you were busy." Gil said.

"Well, I was," Greg said, in a tone that seemed too perky. "I've still got to sort out some paperwork."

"I knew that." Gil said, "But that wasn't the reason why I didn't tell you."

"It is not?"

"No." Gil took a deep breath, "It's just… You've kept your distance lately," he said, "It's only an impression, but -"

"You're right." Greg said abruptly. "You're right, I have. I… I guess I needed some time," he added. "Some time away from you, I mean."

Grissom took a deep breath.

"I thought as much," He said quietly.

"You did?"

"Yes." He said.

In the silence that followed, Gil tried to imagine what Greg was doing. Was he sitting, or was he lying on his back, staring at the ceiling? Was he alone, or was there someone else there, playfully trying to snatch the phone away from him and mouthing the words, 'who're you talking to?'

Grissom shook his head. He needed to stop thinking.

Greg spoke again.

"The truth is, there's something I've wanted to say to you." He started, "I've walked up to your office about a dozen times this past couple of days, only to turn back. I think I've worn down a patch from the lab to your door -"

And, as if to illustrate this point, Greg actually rose from his bed and started to pace about the room. Gil could hear the tell-tale sounds of Greg's feet stepping on creaking wood.

"I guess it isn't something I can say face to face -" Greg added.

Gil closed his eyes. This might be just what he'd been afraid of for so long. Feeling his determination begin to falter, he grabbed a chair and sat.

He took a deep breath. "Go on," he said hoarsely.

"Grissom? You ok?"

"Yeah," Grissom mumbled, "I think I have a migraine coming up."

"Oh, man," Greg said in commiseration, "You know, my uncle Lars used to have migraines, too. Knocked him out for days, sometimes. He'd put an ice pack on the back of his head; he said it helped. He would pay us kids a dollar an hour to hold it for him-"

"Greg," Gil interrupted. When Greg didn't speak, he added, "Go ahead."

"Right." Greg said. He took a deep breath. "This is difficult -"

"Just say it."

"Right," he said again, "Ok." There was a lengthy silence again, but just when Gil was about to prompt him again, Greg finally continued, "It's just…I've been thinking…" he gulped, "I've been thinking how much easier it would be if I stayed with the swing shift."

Grissom leant on the counter. There was a minute crack on its surface, and Gil fixed his gaze there. He spoke mechanically.

"You have?" he asked.

"Yeah. It's not that I don't want to go back to the night shift, Grissom," Greg said quickly, "I like working with you and Sara. But I can't go back unless – Unless I know that things are going to be the way they were before, if you know what I mean."

"Not really," Gil said, still staring at the crack on the counter.

Greg's sigh was audible enough for Gil to hear.

"It's just… things have changed, Grissom." He paused. "Now you know all about Robson and the things he did, and the things that _I_ did -and didn't do. I mean," he lowered his voice, "I was part of this guy's _training_, Grissom."

"That's one way of looking at it." Gil said cautiously.

"I let him practice his little ritual on me," Greg said, "I let him believe he could get away with anything. If I had fought back -"

"- he would have hurt you." Gil interrupted, "He was armed, remember?"

"He wasn't armed at first. If I hadn't been so damned trusting -"

"Greg, we're always wiser on hindsight."

"You don't think that if I had stood up to him, it would have made a difference in the long run?"

"I can't answer that." Gil said, "Nobody can. Greg, there's something you have to remember: you're not responsible for this guy's behavior. Whatever he did, it was the result of years of conditioning. It didn't happen overnight, and it didn't happen because he met you."

Grissom took a deep breath.

"Listen. It's only natural to feel a degree of guilt in cases like these, Greg. We need to believe we're in control of our lives. When something like this happens we blame ourselves for not taking precautions, because the alternative –that not everything in life can be controlled – is scarier. No one likes to feel powerless. You said it, yourself. Nobody wants to be a victim."

"I know," Greg said, "But that's not – that's not what this is all about. The truth is… I'm ashamed." He said reluctantly. "Of myself." He took a deep breath, "I was scared shitless, Grissom. I put an act at first, but the truth is, by the end of it, I was truly scared. And he loved it -I could see it in his eyes. The scorn. I was doing what he wanted and he despised me for it."

"He _envied_ you, Greg." Gil said quietly. "He hated the fact that you had what he'd always wanted -"

Greg sighed.

"I know that, now." He replied, "And it doesn't really matter, what he thought of me, Grissom. What matters is what I think of myself. _I _fell for it. _I_ let him restrain me. I mean, I was pathetic; I went with him because I was lonely -that's it. The guy looked good and that was enough for me. Talk about being shallow, right?"

Greg chuckled bitterly, "When I was telling you that part of my story I realized how stupid it must sound to you. I mean, you wouldn't mind being alone; you wouldn't put yourself in a dangerous situation -"

"Greg, this isn't about me -"

"Wrong." Greg replied, "It is about you. It's about the way you will look at me, from now on. Listen. Most of my friends still rib me about Troy; some of them think I was a fool for following him, and some think I was a fool for running away; either way –I'm an idiot in their eyes. That's ok, I don't mind. But I care about your opinion, Grissom."

Gil was appalled

"You think I'm going to judge you? Is that what you're afraid of?"

"I'm afraid that you'll look at me with scorn," Greg replied, "Or with compassion, which would be even worse. I don't think I could take that, Grissom." He paused for a moment and then he said, "I don't want to lose your respect."

"That would never happen, Greg." Gil said, "Never."

Greg stopped pacing.

"Do you think we can forget all about this, then?" he asked, "Pretend you never saw my picture, or that I ever met Robson -"

"No." Gil said.

There was a sharp intake of break from Greg, and Gil pictured the young man closing his eyes, bracing himself for whatever it was that Gil was going to say.

"We can't forget, Greg. We just… move on." Grissom said. "Whatever happened that night, it's in the past. It doesn't change who you are, and it doesn't change what I -" _What I feel for you_, he was going to say, but he caught himself just in time, "-what I think of you." He finished. "We're friends, Greg. Friends are there for each other, no matter what."

Greg didn't immediately reply.

"Greg? I mean it."

Greg exhaled noisily.

"Thank God," he groaned in relief. He said something else, but Grissom couldn't make out what it was; there were too many noises in the background. It seemed that Greg had simply dropped back in bed. Grissom smiled as he pictured Greg bouncing on the bed, and then laying on his back, his arms carelessly sprawled at his sides, all tension gone.

Gil's mental picture might just have been right; Greg was so relaxed indeed, that he let the phone slip from his fingers. It fell on the floor with a crash. Wincing, Gil held the phone away until he heard Greg's voice again.

"Grissom, you there?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry about that!" he said sheepishly. "You ok?" he didn't pause, "Jeeze, what am I saying, you can't be ok; you said you had a migraine coming up. That noise must have made it even worse!"

"I'm fine."

"You serious?" he asked, but he didn't pause long enough for Gil to say anything, "I mean, I know what a noise like that can do when you've got a migraine. My uncle Lars…" but Greg decided against telling more tales about his uncle, "Are you really ok?"

"Yeah, I am."

"Look, I'm asking because I could, you know, grab an ice pack and drop by -"

In the brief pause that followed, Grissom realized that Greg was giving him a chance to invite him over. Grissom froze. He had never extended an invitation, he had never even considered it. He didn't know what to say, but the decision was ultimately taken out of his hands.

"Nah," Greg said almost immediately, "It's a bad idea, right? Forget I said that."

"I could drop by your place," Gil said, surprising himself. He had never invited himself to Greg's place.

Greg was surprised, too.

"Really? You think you can manage the drive?"

"Yeah." Gil said, "It might not be a migraine, after all."

"Ok. Good. I'll have an ice pack ready for ya, just in case."

Greg didn't actually have an ice pack –he didn't even have ice; all he had was an ancient frozen bag of peas. He thought it was just as good as an ice pack, but he didn't get a chance to try it out. Now, the bag lay on the floor downstairs, where Greg had dropped it.

The young man had tried to hold the bag on the back of Gil's head as soon as the older man came in, but the gesture was so close to a hug, that the next thing they knew, they were kissing and pulling each other for a real embrace. Soon, they climbed the stairs, forgetting all about migraines and melting bags of peas.

Later that night, they lay in bed. They were facing each other, with their legs still entangled and a pool of semen cooling off between them.

They were looking at each other through half-closed eyes.

Grissom touched Greg's face. It was a tender gesture that he somehow disguised by wiping beads of sweat from Greg's forehead. He reluctantly withdrew his hand, but he couldn't help saying something.

"You're a good guy."

Greg blinked and then he scoffed.

"What?" Grissom asked, a bit surprised by the reaction.

"Nothing," Greg muttered, "It's just… When someone says you're a good guy, what they really mean is you're _boring_."

"I wasn't implying that."

Greg kept his gaze on Gil, as if he were gauging the older man's sincerity.

"You mean it." he said, still not quite believing Gil.

"Yes."

"That's a compliment, right?"

"Of course."

Greg looked away, and after a moment, he slowly untangled his legs from Gil's and turned until he was laying on his back. He stared at the ceiling for a moment.

"There's your little friend, up there." he said when he noticed the tiny spider in a corner.

Gil didn't turn. He had a perfect view of Greg's profile against the faint light coming through the blinds, and that's all he wanted to keep looking at.

"It means a lot," Greg said after a moment.

"What?"

"Hearing you say I'm a good guy."

"It's the truth."

Greg smiled faintly. Then he yawned noisily. He glanced at Gil.

"You know…" he said, "I always sleep well when you come over."

"Boring conversation?" Gil said, smiling self-deprecatingly.

Greg chuckled briefly.

"Nah." he said, "Good sex."

Gil smiled, pleased. Then, a sudden thought occurred to him.

"Was that a ten, then?"

Greg's body shook with soft laughter. Then he frowned, as if he were actually mulling over Gil's question.

"Mmmh. No," He said at last, "That was an eight-and-a-half."

"Oh, come on," Gil replied, gently kicking him. "All that effort and all you can give me is an eight-and-a-half?" But he laughed, too.

Greg looked away again, and after a moment, he closed his eyes. It seemed he was falling asleep, at last. But he wasn't ready to drift off yet. Without opening his eyes, he spoke again.

"You know what I'd like to do tomorrow?" he muttered. "Go to Antigua's for breakfast."

"Mmmh."

"Pancakes… Omelets… OJ… Fried plantains…" he muttered, just as if he were using the words to lull himself to sleep. "Sweet coffee…" he sighed. And just when it seemed the young man had finally fallen asleep, he surprised Gil by adding, "I'll buy you breakfast."

Gil's heart skipped a beat. Breakfast together meant he'd have to stay the night.

That would be a first.

Grissom opened his mouth to respond, but before he did, he noticed that Greg had finally fallen asleep. He knew, just by the steady rhythm of Greg's breathing. Gil didn't say anything, then; instead, he reached behind him and tugged at the sheet that had been pushed away while they were making love. He pulled at it until he got it to cover both of them. He tucked a corner of the sheet under Greg's shoulder, and then he leant forward, just enough to whisper something in Greg's ear.

"Thanks." he said.

Then he turned to his own side of the bed and fell asleep.

* * *

TBC

Thank you for reviewing…


	20. Chapter 20

DECISIONS

Spoiler: Ellie (mention of cake in the break room)

A brief look into Gil's past.

* * *

Grissom parted a curtain and took a look outside. 

Grissom parted a curtain and took a look outside. It was raining. In fact, it hadn't stopped raining since early that morning.

This hadn't put a damper on his activities, however; it was his first day in Portland, and he'd been determined to go out and take in the sights. He'd returned to Janice's house just in time to cook dinner, and now that it was taken care of, he took a little time to stand by the large window in the living room.

He had been surprised by the feminine touches in her house, but most shocking of all was finding out that she had a garden, and than she tended it herself. It was clearly her pride and joy.

He never suspected she had it in her -the ability to make things grow.

He liked the garden, but he still felt overwhelmed by the amount of greenery that surrounded the house -and all of Portland, it seemed. He had been born in a city like this, yet he had forgotten what it was like.

He had definitely lived too long in the desert, and after spending a day here, he began to realize why: Green cities like these brought him too many memories. They reminded him of his father, who was a botanist, and of his mother, whose main hobby was to tend to the rosebushes at the back of the house.

They also reminded him of John, who used to love the rain -

Grissom scoffed as this last thought crossed his mind.

Just before he boarded the plane that was to bring him to Portland, he had given himself a pep talk on how to handle Janice in case she tried to get him to talk about John or Greg. He'd make it clear that he'd come to Portland to take some rest, not to talk about his private life. He'd be gentle but firm with her...

And now there he was, getting all nostalgic about his old boyfriend -and without any prompting from her.

But the rain made it only natural, to think of John.

Little by little, he felt the bitterness fade away from the memories. At some point he even began to smile.

"It was raining like this -" he whispered at one point.

_It was raining, the first time he and John spent the night together. _

_It had been a week since Gil had first approached John, and since then, they'd gone out a few times. They were serious students who didn't have much time to spare for dates, and they didn't have the money, either. Mostly, they went to the movies or to a local bar . _

_Not that those were dates in the strict sense of the word. They went out with their classmates and were rarely ever alone. The truth was, neither Gil nor John had ever been in a relationship, and they had no clue as to what was expected of them. _

_But as the days passed, they began to get more comfortable with each other. Sometimes, in a darkened movie house, John's hand would bump into Gil's and stay there. Or they would purposefully take a shortcut on their way back to the dorms, and sneak into some darkened alley where they would kiss -a quick and clumsy meeting of noses and mouths._

_Gil was happy enough with this. _

_Then on Friday, John talked him into spending the night at a local park that was popular among college students looking for casual sex or for a quiet place to get high. _

_Not that drugs or sex were in John's mind. He had very specific ideas of what they were going to do: First, set up a tent; then, go outside and collect insects; then, come back to the tent to take notes._

_Gil said yes, of course. He liked to study with John. _

_So, that night they sneaked into the park, set up the tent, picked up their lamps and their glass jars, and stumbled around while searching for night crawlies. They had to keep their lights to a minimum because they didn't want to attract anyone's attention. The local kids weren't a problem; it was the cops they wanted to avoid; some of them stayed clear of the bushy areas of the park, but others were zealous about their job. _

_What made Gil smile now was the fact that he'd been serious about looking for insects. He had no idea that John had other plans for the night , and that while Gil eagerly poked through the mud in search for beetles, he was quietly gathering the courage to make his move. _

_Finally, he simply pulled Gil to his feet and, grabbing him by the front of his shirt, kissed him passionately. _

_He kept walking as he kissed Gil, forcing the younger man to step back. Later, John would admit that he didn't really intended to go anywhere; he simply kept pushing Gil, blindly stumbling in the dark, until a tree finally made them stop. They had dropped their glass jars at some point, and now, with their hands free, they instinctively reached for each other. _

_John pressed Gil against the tree and kept on kissing him. At some point Gil felt the bark cut into his back but he didn't warn John. This was not the right time for words. _

_They were clumsy at first; awkward. Little by little, though, they became more assured and comfortable with each other, and soon they simply left their mutual attraction take over. _

_By then it had started to rain, but they didn't care. They simply huddled under their tree and held on to each other. Gone was the awkwardness –and Gil's shyness, too; when John tentatively slid his hand under the hem of Gil's old sweater, the younger man responded by tearing John's shirt open. _

_John would always tease Gil about this. At the time, however, he didn't laugh at Gil's impatience; he felt just as eager himself. In fact, John would later admit to being surprised by how much they'd wanted each other. They were both scientists who knew all there was to know about the human body, and yet, there they were, shaking at the mere sight and touch of another half-naked man. _

_They didn't analyze this at the time; they simply grappled in the dark, desperately touching each other until they made each other come. _

_They ended up lying on the wet grass, locked in a sticky embrace until they got their breath back. __After a while, John turned to Gil, and asked him if he was cold. Gil shook his head. He was shaking but not from the cold; he was just overwhelmed. He was ok –more than ok- and said so. _

_John smiled. _

"_I'd never done this in a park," he mused. He looked at Gil again, "You know who we are?" he asked huskily, "Adam and Steve." _

_They both laughed. _

_They had heard that phrase a few days before, when some guy who called himself a reverend sneaked into their campus and started to preach about the evils of homosexuality. 'The Bible don't teach us about Adam and Steve,' he'd said, 'It teach us about Adam and Eve…'_

_Gil had felt vaguely uncomfortable at the time, but now it struck him as funny._

"_Hey," John said, "You're laughing." he stared attentively at Gil, "You look good when you do that. You should do it more often."_

"_Then we should do this more often," Gil replied, surprising himself -and John, too. _

"_Well…We'll do it more often, if you want." _

_They stayed in their shelter until the rain started to dwindle. It took them a while to gather the strength to get up and rearrange their clothes, and then they had to recover the glass jars they'd dropped. John scrupulously insisted on this. He used his own shirt to bag them._

_When they returned to the tent, they stripped and got in the old, ratty sleeping bag that John had borrowed for the occasion. There was barely enough space for both of them, but that was the point, wasn't it?_

_They didn't immediately fall asleep. They ate a chocolate bar that Gil had brought, and then they talked. John made Gil laugh with his impression of Bela Lugosi's Count Dracula, 'Listen to the children of the night," he said, " What music they make…' and then he proceeded to ID the insects that were making a racket in the woods._

_Gil fell asleep while listening to John's description of a cricket he'd studied a while ago. _

_Later, he found out that John had stayed awake most of the night, keeping a vigil in case a guard dropped by, in case some insect crawled into the tent._

_When Gil woke up the next morning, John was attentively following the progress of a centipede on his arm. _

_Grissom watched John. Despite having attended classes together for months, Gil had never had a chance to ogle until now. John's usually clean-shaven jaw looked bluish with overgrowth, and his light brown hair was tussled. His lips were slightly swollen. _

"_I love you." Grissom blurted out._

_John had burst out laughing, but whatever he saw on Gil's face quickly sobered him up. The young man was definitely not joking. _

_John's mirth was replaced with gentle concern then._

"_Oh, no," He said, tenderly touching Gil's face, "You don't want to do that."_

_Gil frowned, "Why?" _

"_Because love ruins everything." John said simply. "And I don't want to ruin this." _

_Gil hesitated for a few seconds._

"_I don't want to ruin it either," He said. If John didn't want to hear the word, he would not say it. He would agree to anything John wanted. _

_John carefully picked up an ant that had crawled up to one of Gil's nipples. He examined the ant and then he delicately put it on the ground. Then he turned his attention back to Gil's nipple. He kissed it. _

_He looked up._

"_You know… If I could ever love anyone, it would be you." he said. _

"Staring at the rain won't make it stop."

Gil blinked. For a moment he had forgotten where he was.

He turned. Janice had noiselessly entered the living room. She was taking off her raincoat. She tilted her head towards the kitchen.

"Mmmmh!" she sighed appreciatively, "What is that smell?"

"Freshly-baked bread," Gil said smugly.

"You're _baking _bread?"

"Why are you so surprised? You enrolled me in a cooking class, remember?"

"I didn't know they'd give you any homework!" she smiled at him, "Did you enjoy the class?"

"It was a cooking class for _couples_, Janice." He glared.

"Yes? So?"

"So, I was the only one without a partner, there."

"And whose fault is that?" she retorted. But she softened her tone, "I'm sorry. I know I should have warned you, but if I had, then you wouldn't have gone. You would have stayed here, staring out the window, or sitting and reading. Besides…" she paused, "You enjoyed the class, didn't you? You tend to bloom when you're surrounded by strangers."

Gil didn't comment; she was absolutely correct about everything she'd just said, but he was not about to admit it.

"Anyway," Janice added, "_I_ had a bad day, thanks for asking."

"I'm sorry, _dear_," Gil said sarcastically, "How was your day?"

"It was bad, didn't you hear?" but she smiled as she said this. She draped her raincoat on a chair and came to stand by Gil.

"It doesn't rain like this all the time," She said kindly.

"I know." he said, "I don't mind. I didn't come here to work on my tan."

"You know, I still can't believe that you accepted my invitation," she said. "Did you have a tough case you didn't want to investigate, or something…? No." she said before he even had a chance to answer. "You'd never leave because of a case. Something personal, perhaps?"

"I needed the time off." he said simply. He looked outside again. "I like your garden. How come you never talk about it?"

"It's just a little hobby." She said, self-deprecatingly, "More like an occupational therapy, actually." she glanced at Gil, "My shrink doesn't approve; he says coroners and undertakers shouldn't take up gardening." She looked outside again, "But I don't agree with him. There's something soothing about burying seeds and bulbs."

"They break through the soil, and bloom -" Gil said.

"Unlike dead bodies." she finished. "Although I have to admit I cried the first time a rosebush died on me."

Gil smiled faintly at her and then looked outside again.

She kept her gaze on him.

"Well?" she asked after a minute, "You're not going to ask me why I'm seeing a shrink?"

He briefly shook his head.

"It's a private matter."

"Yes, it is, but it would be nice if you showed some concern." She looked closely at him, "But then I suppose you've never been to a shrink?"

"I see one every year." He replied matter-of-factly, "It's mandatory."

"What, the annual medical check-up that law enforcement officials must pass? Oh, please," She scoffed, "Those poor PD shrinks are so overworked they're content to assert you're not suicidal or murderous. _I _am talking about shelling out $.250 for the privilege of talking to someone."

Grissom was surprised at how smug she sounded about it.

"All right," he said patiently, "I'm going to ask: Why are you seeing a shrink?"

"I can't tell you." she dead-panned, "It's private."

Grissom smiled.

"Seriously, though," she said, "Have you ever seen a shrink, Gil?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because I'd like to know I'm not the only one who's ever seen one."

Gil narrowed his eyes.

"Why do you always turn the focus on me? Why can't we talk about you?"

"Because I don't like to talk about myself," she replied, "Least of all, my mental health. I'd rather talk about yours."

He snorted. He wasn't keen on talking about himself –as she should have known. But he had the impression that Janice needed reassurance on the matter.

"Yes," he said quietly, "I've seen a couple of shrinks. I didn't have to shell out $.250 per session, though."

"You shouldn't count pennies when it comes to your health, Gil." She admonished.

"What I mean is that I saw them a long time ago. Fees were considerably lower then."

"And did they do you any good?"

"Actually, yes," he said. He was going to add something to this, when he remembered he had dinner to take care of. "Come on." He said. "We'll talk in the kitchen."

She took his arm.

"So?" she asked, "Did you really enjoy the class?"

"I did." He said. He glanced at her, "And before you ask, yes, I wished Greg had been there with me."

"I was not going to ask," she said primly.

"He would have enjoyed flirting with the female instructor," Gil added without irony.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	21. Chapter 21

DECISIONS

-----------------------------------------------------------

Gil pulled back a chair for her.

"Thanks," she said graciously. She smiled as he poured her a glass of cold water. "You're being so attentive, tonight."

She watched him move efficiently around the kitchen, taking care of several tasks at the same time.

She was impressed.

"I could get used to this, you know," she said, "If your cooking is any good, I could offer you an extravagant salary and tempt you into staying as my very own Jeeves."

"You could never afford me," Gil muttered.

She ignored the interruption.

"You would be my butler, but that would be only a cover," she said dreamily, "In reality, we would be investigators, and we'd travel around the world, solving the most intricate crimes -"

Grissom gave her a look of disapproval.

"You've been reading your old detective books, haven't you?"

"Guilty as charged," she laughed. She leant forward on the table, "Seriously, though," she added, "You seem like a nurturing kind of guy, Gil."

"Well, you paid for the cooking class," he shrugged, "The least I can do is cook you a meal."

"It's not just that," she said thoughtfully, "I really believe you like taking care of others."

Grissom didn't reply. He had an immediate task and he focused on it. In a few minutes, he tossed a salad, sliced the bread, and carved the roast.

He doled out the food in two plates and brought them to the table.

Janice looked down at her plate. Gil had heaped everything together -the meat, the salad, the sauce, and a couple of slices of bread. She smiled to herself; Gil needed a course on food presentation.

"Dig in," he instructed.

The food was good, and they ate in companionable silence for a while.

Halfway through, Gil rose to check on a pie that was warming up in the oven. When he sat again, he spoke.

"The first time I saw a therapist, I was still at the hospital." he said.

She looked up in surprise. She'd assumed she'd have to pull that story from Gil, and there he was, voluntarily telling her about it.

"Remember my ulcer, and how it was related to the pressure I was putting myself under?" he asked, "The doctors thought I needed help, so they got me a Psychologist; an intern, actually." He paused, "Dr. Donna Andrews."

"You still remember her?"

"I do. She was young and looked like a flower-child," he smiled at the memory, "She would say, 'Jesus Loves You' at the start and at the end of each session -"

"Oh, no," Janice was appalled, "They sent you a religious freak?"

"Well..." he hesitated, "She was not a fanatic, if that's what you mean."

She was skeptical.

"I bet she would look at you with bright, glassy eyes and smile vacantly at everything you said -"

Gil smiled faintly.

"She did," he admitted, "But you know what? She was exactly what I needed. She didn't believe in analysis and _I_ was not ready to dig deeply into my psyche, either. She offered instant solutions."

"Through prayer?" she scoffed.

"She helped." He shrugged. "Look. What I needed at the time was someone to love me," he said, "After listening to her, I thought, 'If Jesus loves me, then things can't be that bad.'"

She didn't know how to reply to that.

"Anyway… She got me talking, which was a major achievement at the time," he admitted. "I was more honest than I had ever been -too honest, maybe."

"What do you mean?"

"She was a Catholic," he said, "At one point, she asked me if there was someone I might be interested in -romantically, that is- and I said yes. She was glad for me." he smiled, "But when she asked, 'who is she?' I just went ahead and told her it wasn't a girl but a man -"

"Uh, oh. What did she say?"

"Nothing, at first," he said, "Her dreamy smile froze on her face; then she tried to say something but couldn't…" he glanced at Janice, "I guess she was torn between her religious beliefs and her duty as a therapist."

"So, what happened?"

"The therapist in her won. She didn't judge me; she didn't tell me I was going to hell for being gay; instead, she said, 'Good!' in a very fake tone. Then she gave me a pep talk; told me that I needed to do something about John. She encouraged me to approach him."

"And you did," Janice said admiringly, "God, her pep talks must have been good."

"They were." He said, and for a moment he seemed lost in thoughts.

Janice kept her gaze on him but didn't press him to continue. She knew that mentioning John's name usually put an end to their conversations.

Gil suddenly realized that she was still looking at him.

"Your food's getting cold," he said softly.

She got the message, and turned her attention back to dinner.

Gil didn't eat anymore. He was simply pushing the food around the plate with his fork. Unbeknownst to Janice, he was quietly gathering the courage to say something.

"You know," he said after a moment, "I was thinking of John, today. Must be the rain." he added, almost to himself, "I've been thinking how difficult it must have been for him. Being with me, I mean."

"That's what you always say," she muttered.

"I'm serious." He said, "Janice, John never meant to get involved with anyone. He'd gone to college to study and start a career, and that was it. He had sex now and then, but he wasn't looking for a commitment. And suddenly, there I was, asking him out -"

"You asked him out?" she smiled, "That took a lot of courage. What did he say?"

Grissom put down his fork.

"Janice, I'd just come out of the hospital; I was pale and emaciated and I probably looked like I'd jump off a building if he said 'no.' What do you think he said?"

"That's what I'm asking you."

"He said yes," Gil said simply.

But it hadn't been as simple as that.

John had been shocked at Gil's approach. It was understandable; in the first place, John had always been very discreet about his sexual preferences and he didn't expect any of his classmates to _know_. Secondly, one just didn't go around asking guys out –it could be dangerous.

But he must have decided that Grissom was a harmless kid, because he'd ended up smiling and telling Gil about a movie he wanted to see.

On hindsight, it was easy to see that John's smile had been just as fake as Dr. Andrews'…

But Gil didn't tell any of this to Janice.

"He smiled," Gil said instead, "And then he said we could go to the movies…" he paused, "With his friends from the chess club."

"Oh." She scoffed, "The snobs."

"Yeah," Gil smiled.

"One hell of a date." she scowled.

Gil resented that comment. After all, John never went out on dates. He was content with having sex with strangers in private parties that some students organized once a month. He did not believe in relationships, but he'd made an exception for Gil.

And in the end, he'd provided Gil with the closest thing to a relationship the younger man had ever had. And he'd made each moment memorable: First kiss, first sexual encounter, first meal…

Grissom had spent years trying to obliterate these and other memories, but now he realized he should have cherished them.

"He cared about me." Gil said quietly, "I just didn't appreciate it at the time -or after."

"But you were good to him too, Gil." She replied, "I mean, you softened him up. He was smart guy but he had no patience with people. Once you came along, he took the time to be with the rest of us mortals."

Gil smiled. It was one way of looking at it.

He was silent for a moment. Then he cleared his throat.

"There's something I want you to know," he said, "About John."

She put her fork down.

"Ok," she said slowly.

"You've always blamed him for what happened. I guess it's my fault for not telling you the entire story," he added, "But the truth is, he asked me not to go away. He wanted me to stay as a friend and a coworker -"

"But that was like a slap in the face, Gil," she protested, "Come on, he couldn't expect you to be content with friendship."

"Well, actually, he could. He always talked about how much his career mattered to him, and how involved he expected to be in it. He was always saying that he would not have time for anything else –or anyone, for that matter. I just never listened."

Gil took a deep breath, "He was surprised when I wouldn't take the friendship. He was hurt, actually."

He was going to say more, but before he could, the oven timer sprang to life.

He rose. Janice looked thoughtfully at him.

"You know…" she said, "Right after you left, me and the guys made a bet about how long you'd be able to stay away. We couldn't believe you could leave him that easily."

Gil glanced at her.

"I've always found it easy to leave," he said.

"What does that mean?"

"Exactly what I said," he replied as he opened the oven door. "For instance, I've worked in several cities in my lifetime, and I've always been able to leave without making a fuss, and without saying goodbye." He lifted the pie, "No cake in the break room for me," he said pointedly.

Gil brought the pie and set it on the table. He handed her a fork and then took one for himself. They would share dessert, just like they used to do when they were in college.

He took a few bites and then he spoke again.

"My second shrink helped me understand why I did that."

She gaped at him. She couldn't believe he was telling her all this.

"Your second -"

"Yes," he said. He smiled sheepishly, "I needed help, Janice. Those first years after I left Chicago were tough. I was drinking, I was sleeping around –in short, I was indulging in self-destructive behavior."

"Were you?" she asked in surprise, "You never said anything -"

"It wasn't something I wanted others to know," he said softly. "It wasn't so bad at first, actually. But when it started affecting my work, I realized I needed help. So, I found myself a shrink. Dr. Anna Goldstein," he glanced at her, "She did believe in analysis, so… She helped me uncover all sorts of things."

"…And?"

"…and we ended up blaming it all on my mother, of course," he said cynically.

She shook her head,

"I don't believe that," she said quietly, "You've always taken the blame for everything. That shrink certainly didn't help you with _that_."

He shrugged.

"Well, it wasn't her fault. I moved before I finished the treatment.

Grissom had been talking in a very casual tone, but he grew serious as he explained, "I only stayed long enough to understand why I was falling apart."

"And why was that?"

"Well…. It seems that drinking helped me put some distance between me and myself," he smiled at the absurdity of those words. "I couldn't take being home with my thoughts as sole company," he explained, "They were just too depressing. Drinking helped me ignore the thoughts." He smiled faintly as he added, "I _was_ a happy drunk, Janice. But the happiness wore off too fast."

"I know what that's like," she muttered. "So, what did you do?"

"We talked… She helped me understand why I was doing what I was doing… She made me look hard into the past…"

"What did you find out?" she asked softly.

"Oh…. We barely skimmed the surface," he said evasively. "Bottom line was, I had trouble establishing long-lasting emotional attachments. I know," he added quickly, "It sounds obvious now. But I had to find that out by myself, and it took me months."

"I knew all about me and my family, but I didn't quite understand how the events of my life affected me. My mom suffered from depression –which meant she couldn't take care of me- and my father focused his attention on her –which only reinforced what I perceived as their abandonment of me."

Gil shook his head as if those feelings baffled him now. "It didn't help that my grandmother, who took care of me for a while died suddenly, or that we were constantly moving. In time, I learned not do get too attached to any place or any person -"

He glanced at her and by the concerned look on her face, he realized he'd probably said more than he should have.

"Hey, don't look at me like that. It's ok," he said soothingly. "It's old history." He added dismissively. "It took me months to put everything in perspective, but I finally did. Oh, and by the way," he added, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, "I spent _thousand_ of dollars in those sessions."

She smiled faintly.

"You know, I'm really surprised by all this." she said, "I always had the impression that you didn't trust psychiatrists."

"Actually, I don't." he admitted. "They end up having too much power over an individual."

"Is that why you didn't finish your treatment?"

"I suppose." He shrugged. "I just wanted to be able to do my job, Janice. By then, I'd decided that my personal life should take a step back."

"Just like Johnnie." She said pointedly. She shook her head, "You used to want more, Gil. You wanted a relationship, remember?"

"What I wanted was someone to take care of me."

"Well, that's what relationships are all about," she replied, "You wanted this. You even approached John, for God's sakes -"

"I still can't believe I did that," he smiled ruefully.

"But you did. Surely, that means something."

"Maybe. But in the end, I simply turned my back on him and left." He was silent for a moment. "You know… If I could go back in time, I'd take John's friendship."

She looked curiously at him.

"Do you think he would have changed his mind, if you had stayed around?"

Gil smiled.

"No. He wouldn't have. But at least he wouldn't have been alone."

She stared at him.

"Oh, no." she said slowly, "You're not thinking what I think you're thinking, are you?" she asked, "You don't think you would have kept him from shooting himself -"

"I don't know." he said simply.

"Well, of course, you don't know. And if you had stayed with him, he would have ended up talking _you_ into doing the same."

He stared at her.

"Do you really believe that?" he asked calmly.

She sighed.

"Ah, shit, I don't know. Just forget I said that, ok?" she frowned, "Can you tell me why we always end up having these gloomy conversations, you and me?"

He smiled.

"It's my fault," he said, "Listen. There's only one reason why I decided to tell you all this, tonight. I need you to do something for me."

"Oh, jeeze," she muttered apprehensively. "What is it?"

"I need you to reevaluate your attitude towards John."

She was mystified.

"I don't understand."

"I just want you to remember this," he said and then he reached for her hand. "Whatever he did or didn't do… He didn't do it to _you_."

"So?"

"So, it's time for you to get over it," he said gently, "You used to admire him. I wish you still did. He deserves it."

She looked thoughtfully at Gil.

"You want me to think well of him." she said.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it's the right thing to do." he said gently, "And because it would be good for his soul."

She hesitated.

"I don't know -"

He looked closely at her. "Please?" he said.

She rolled her eyes.

"Oh, all right," she muttered. "Just don't give me that hungry-puppy dog look, ok?"

"_Hungry-puppy dog_ look?" he frowned.

"Don't play innocent with me." She glared, "You can be very manipulative when you want something. That look of yours would melt even the most hardened heart. I wonder what Greg does when he sees it."

She was giving him an opening but he refused to take it.

"How are you two doing, Gil?"

"We're doing fine."

"Good," she said quietly, "No, strike that," she added more animatedly, "It's not 'good'; I think it's great. I mean, after tonight's conversation, all I can say is that I am surprised –and glad- that you didn't put any distance between you and Greg.

"Well… I'm just too old to start anew somewhere else." he shrugged. "Besides, it's not the same situation, Jan. I learned my lesson. I've always known that whatever Greg and me have, can end at any moment; I don't have any expectations -but I'm grateful at what I have."

"Well… that's ok, I guess. But you could have more if you wanted – I mean, you and Greg… If you tried…"

"Janice?" he interrupted, "Why do you leave alone?"

"What does that have anything to do with -"

"Just answer the question." he said gently.

"Hey, don't turn this on me."

"Please?" he asked, purposefully using his hungry-puppy dog look.

She glared, but in the end she replied in a flat tone, "Because after a full day at work, the least I need is have somebody here, making demands on me or even talking to me." she said flatly.

"Exactly." he said. Then he smiled, "Which means you would hate having me here as your very own Jeeves."

She sighed.

"Point taken." she said tiredly. "We're workaholics who can't deal with relationships."

"We're just not good at romance," he shrugged.

"Hey, I'd be good at romance if I had a beautiful man like Greg in my bed!"

"You're right," he said gently, "and that's why I've decided to do anything I can to preserve this relationship."

"Really, Gil?"

"As long as he wants me around… Sure."

"I guess coming from you, that's as good as it gets."

"It is."

They looked down at the pie. They'd been poking at it without any enthusiasm. The times when they could eat everything on the table and not suffer the consequences were long gone.

"So," he said after a moment, "What are your plans for tomorrow? Do you have an early shift?"

She was grateful that he'd found something different to talk about.

"I traded. I'll work nights the rest of the week so I can spend the day with you. Tomorrow, we'll rent a couple of bicycles and take a look around. Then we'll take an origami class -"

Gil paused.

"Origami?" he asked.

"Uh, huh. Why?" she asked mischievously, "Does paper-folding sound too feminine to you?"

"No." he said. "Greg's an expert." he added, and proceeded to tell Janice all about Greg's pastime.

-----------------------------------------------------

TBC

Coming up soon – a slash version of Butterflied and the last two or three chapters of this story.


	22. Chapter 22

DECISIONS

Damn, I wish I could write faster and better. I wish I didn't have other stories crowding in my brain, so I could dedicate more time to finish this one.

Once again I'm putting off the 'butterflied' part of this story.

Spoilers: There's a scene where Greg makes a spelling mistake and Hodges teases him about it, but I can't remember the episode.

Ellie: No cake in the break room.

* * *

Greg Sanders was about to sign his report –the report he'd been working on for an hour- when he noticed a spelling mistake on the last page. 

"Damn," Greg muttered. One mistake meant there had to be others there.

As a new CSI, he was getting better and better at his new tasks, but his bad spelling was turning out to be a curse, especially when writing reports. Without a computer automatically checking his mistakes, he was in for trouble.

"We shouldn't have to write these by hand, anyway," he muttered.

He looked at his friends with a little envy. Like him, they were in the conference room waiting for an assignment. But instead of writing reports, Sara, Nick and Warrick were talking animatedly in a corner, fortifying themselves for the night ahead with cups of coffee.

Resigned, Greg picked up another form. He was about to start over when Catherine Willows entered the room.

"Good evening," she said.

Catherine was acting supervisor and her entrance put an end to the coffee-drinkers' little gathering. They dutifully took a seat but they held on to their cups of coffee. They were tired. They'd been pulling double shifts this past week.

"Well!" Catherine said briskly, "I'm glad to see you're all here -"

Only Nick mustered enough courtesy to ask, "Got a new case for us?"

"A couple," she said, opening a file and taking some sheets from it, "Oh, and the Assistant Director wants us to take over a case that the day shift screwed up."

The guys groaned.

"Relax," Catherine said, "We're going to have help. Besides, Grissom's coming back tonight." She looked expectantly at them as she said this, and she smiled when everybody's attention was roused.

Grissom's sudden decision to leave on vacation had taken everybody by surprise. The boss rarely did anything that lent itself to gossip, but when he did, well, it inevitably stirred his colleagues' imaginations. Suddenly, everyone in the lab had a theory as to why Grissom had left.

Sara smirked, "Hodges is going to be sorry, then. He bet Grissom would not be back for a whole month."

"What about the other rumors??" Warrick asked to no one in particular. "Do you think he went away for his vacation?"

"No way," Nick replied, "I still believe he spent these past days locked in his basement, raising a new breed of cockroaches -"

"Frankenroach," Warrick smirked.

Sara shook her head.

"You keep saying that," she said, "He's bound to have other interests besides Entomology and Forensics, you know."

"Hard to believe," Nick replied, "In my opinion, he either spent his vacation in the basement, or in Humboldt county, moonlighting at their resident CSI."

"He did not!" Catherine laughed.

"There are plenty of things he could have done," Sara said, "He could have gone to a museum -"

"Not for five days in a row," Nick replied.

"Why not?" Sara asked peevishly

Nick smiled.

"You mean that's what _you_ would do in your vacation."

"Why not?" Sara challenged, "There are plenty of museums in town."

The conversation went on like this, all thoughts of work momentarily forgotten.

The only one who didn't join in was Greg. He'd looked up sharply when Catherine announced Grissom's return and then studiously looked down again. He pretended to be engrossed in his work but in reality he was listening closely, waiting for Catherine to say more about Grissom.

Unfortunately, Catherine was more interested in his colleagues, who were happily sharing some of the outrageous stories that had been concocted about Gil.

Greg already knew those -he'd been hearing them all week. Even the lowliest of lab techs had speculated about the boss. And while some of the stories seemed plausible, most were just too outrageous to consider. There was talk of new jobs and secret investigations, secret marriages, and even plastic surgery.

It was harmless fun, really, and a year before Greg would have probably joined in.

But not now.

He didn't feel comfortable, talking about Grissom. His relationship with Gil, shallow though it was, put him in an awkward position with the rest of their colleagues. It seemed disloyal somehow, to joke about Gil.

But that wasn't the only reason for his reticence. There was another, one that he still found it difficult to admit: Grissom's sudden departure had hit him hard.

Greg didn't understand it; it wasn't like he'd even cared when he first heard that Grissom was gone.

Of all the CSIs, he was probably the only one who didn't think there was anything odd about Grissom leaving without saying goodbye or without giving much of an explanation. To Greg, it was just like Grissom _not_ to share his plans with anyone. It was just a quirk of his; an obsessive need for privacy.

And as for Gil's sudden decision to leave on vacation, well, that was understandable, too. Any guy with a stressful job needed some time off sometime -even Gil, who didn't take vacation time unless the honchos from Human Resources forced him to.

Greg really didn't think much of it. He was too busy to dwell on it, anyway. With Grissom gone, his workload had doubled up. He didn't have time to spare more than a casual thought to his boss –although in the days following Gil's departure he had caught himself thinking of Gil at some inappropriate places, like Court, for instance.

But that was nothing, really.

The real trouble began a couple of days later, when Greg met Warrick for a cup of coffee. It was at the end of their shift, and after a short discussion of their current cases, talk inevitably turned to their boss.

Warrick mentioned a conversation he and Grissom had years before.

"He said he wouldn't stay in Vegas forever," Warrick said, "That if and when he left, he would do it quietly, without making a fuss. '_No cake in the break room'_, was how Grissom put it. He would not even say goodbye -"

Warrick's pause was eloquent.

Greg frowned.

"You don't think Grissom would leave his job without telling us first, right?"

Warrick shrugged noncommittally.

"He wouldn't do that," Greg insisted, but suddenly he didn't feel so sure himself.

"Hey, I'm just telling you what he said to me." Warrick said, "But I tell ya; every time Grissom leaves on vacation, I tell myself he might not be back."

Greg didn't comment. Privately, he didn't believe that Grissom would leave just like that. Of course not.

No way.

But what if?

The question nagged at him later that day, while he lay sleepless in bed. What if Grissom simply decided to drop everything and leave? Wouldn't it be just like him to do that?

It was then that Greg had started to worry.

Greg did more than worry; he actually set out to investigate Grissom's whereabouts.

Not that he planned it on advance. The chance simply presented itself later, when Warrick asked him to do a credit card search. As Greg entered the name of the suspect, it suddenly occurred to him that by delving into Gil's recent credit card history, he could easily deduce what Gil was doing and where.

On an impulse, Greg typed Grissom's name. After a moment's hesitation, he added the rest of the data.

Greg's heart was beating fast. He knew that using the lab's resources for personal purposes was wrong but he reasoned that everybody did it at least once in their lives.

At least, that's what he'd heard.

He tried not to think about it; he was about to find out all about Grissom's recent activities, and that's all that mattered. With the last part of the process complete, all that remained was to hit 'enter.'

But the determination that had fueled him 'till then suddenly abandoned him. He sat in front of the computer for what felt like an eternity, his fingers hovering over the keyboard in indecision.

He couldn't do it. It was unethical; it was -

It was the kind of thing Grissom would never do.

Or approve.

Uneasily, Greg looked up from the screen, only to find himself face to face with a stranger staring intently at him.

Greg almost jumped out of his chair but stopped when he realized he was only looking at his own reflection on a window pane. There was no one else in the room.

It was eerie, nevertheless. Like a warning. He was alone, yet it felt like he was being watched.

And maybe he was.

Greg looked up at his own reflection for a long time, and then he looked at Gil's name on the screen. After a moment's hesitation, he finally touched the keyboard.

He deleted the request.

And then he got the hell out of there.

---

Greg was glad that his investigation on Grissom ended before it really began, but the mere fact that he had initiated it in the first place troubled him. Actually, and these were the words he used, 'it freaked him out.'

It wasn't like him to do anything that might jeopardize his job. And this sudden concern for Grissom was out of character too. He should have been out there with his friends, taking shots at the boss like everybody else.

Instead, he was losing sleep over him.

It was enough to piss one off.

And Greg realized that yes, he was pissed off –and not just at himself. He was pissed off at the source of his problems -Gil Grissom.

Greg had previously found excuses for his boss' behavior but now it irked him. The truth was, Grissom should have said goodbye; at the very least, he should have let them know what his plans were instead of leaving it up to Catherine to explain -which she couldn't very well do anyway, since Gil didn't tell _her_ anything either.

But if worrying over Grissom was disturbing, being angry at him was worse. It didn't do to be angry at your own boss. Especially if you didn't know why you were so pissed off in the first place. Certainly, Grissom's actions didn't warrant such an emotional response from him.

And that's what bothered Greg the most; the fact that his emotions were starting to get in the way. That's not what he had expected from a relationship with Grissom. In fact, one of the things he liked about this thing he and Grissom had going was its lack of emotional commitment.

In Greg's mind, emotions spelled trouble. It was one of the reasons his relationships never lasted long. Greg disliked conflict. He was willing to help friends solve their problems but once conflict arose in a personal relationship, then forget it, the relationship was over.

He was definitely a better friend than a boyfriend.

Greg didn't know why he was like this, nor he cared. Introversion wasn't one of his strong points. Like most CSIs, he was great at analyzing other people's feelings and motivations but when it came to his own, he was as clueless as any man on the street.

But if someone had pressed him for an explanation, Greg would have probably said that he expected relationships to be fun, fun all the time. Once the fun stopped, there was no point in going on.

From the start, Greg had successfully avoided weighing the pros and cons of being involved with the boss; after the botched credit card investigation, however, he started to reconsider his involvement with Grissom.

Greg was still thinking it over. Even as he sat in the conference room rewriting his report, his thoughts kept straying in Gil's direction.

Greg hadn't made a decision yet, but there was something he was absolutely certain of by now: This relationship wasn't fun anymore.

"Greg?"

Catherine's voice had an edge, and Greg looked up sharply. To his surprise, they were all looking at him. Catherine must have called out his name at least once already.

Damn.

"Yes?" he asked promptly.

"You're alone tonight," she said, "B and E with assault," she added cryptically as she handed him a report. "Home owner came back unexpectedly, surprised the intruders. He'll survive but he got multiple contusions. Vega will meet you at the hospital."

"Ok," Greg said, taking a quick glance at the report.

"Ok," Catherine said, pushing her chair back, "That's it, then."

"Not quite," a voice said.

They all looked at the doorway. Grissom was standing there.

* * *

TBC 

Note: I don't know how easy it would be for Greg to investigate Gil.

Next: Grissom's thoughts.


	23. Chapter 23

DECISIONS

What? Another chapter, and so soon??? This is not like me!

Actually, I wrote a long chapter and divided it in three –maybe four chapters. So there'll be another chapter pretty soon.

I'd like to thank you for following the story. It's taken me too long, mostly because I keep having trouble with some of the scenes; they're difficult for me to describe because I don't speak English -and if I can't even describe them in Spanish, well… You can imagine. In the end, I've ended up simply deleting the damn scenes.

I've made it difficult for them to finally sit and talk, but I promise there'll be a happy ending.

SPOILER: Play with Fire (Greg's lab explodes and CW gets the blame.)

* * *

"Dr. Grissom! Hi, sir!"

Gil Grissom vaguely nodded at the lab technician standing by the reception desk. Another technician, on hearing the name, looked up sharply. She didn't say anything; only eyed him speculatively.

'Some things never change,' Grissom thought to himself. Whenever he returned from a sabbatical, people looked at him with barely veiled curiosity.

The glances were specially conspicuous this time; from the receptionist to the technicians he was encountering in the hallway, everybody was showing an interest in him.

Not that Gil took it personally. He knew that prying came naturally to those who detected for a living. It was like a game, finding out what others did in their vacation.

Some CSI's made it easy; they actually boasted of the things they'd done in their vacation. They brought back nice tans and wore Hawaiian shirts, for instance. Or they came back wearing baseball caps or shirts with hotel logos.

Grissom, on the other hand, didn't make it easy. He was wearing nondescript dark clothes, and nothing in his demeanor revealed what he'd done in the past week. The boxes he was carrying could have provided them with a clue, but Grissom didn't loiter in the hallway and so nobody got a closer look.

Grissom entered his office and put his boxes on the desk. The heaviest he left there; there were valuable books in it. The box on top went into the fridge, while a couple of smaller ones went into a drawer, to be opened later.

Gil sat behind his desk and then he looked around.

'I'm back', he thought. There was an odd feeling of anticipation behind this thought.

It wasn't the first time he went away in a vacation. In more than twenty years of living in Las Vegas, he had lost count of the many times he'd gone through the same bureaucratic process.

He'd lost count of the many times he'd returned to find that the pile of pending paperwork on his desk was as high as always, (even though _someone_ had been left in charge while he was away), or the many times he'd picked up his car keys at the reception, only to be told that the Tahoe was still in the car shop, (despite the fact that he'd specifically requested that nothing be done to it in his absence).

Now, as he took a look at his office, he saw that apart from a picture of Lindsay that Catherine had brought from her own office, nothing had changed. The pile of reports was predictably high, and the unopened mail would probably keep him busy for days.

Nope. There was nothing new here.

But while some things never changed, others did.

As he sat back in his chair, Grissom mused on how this trip had helped him see his relationship with Greg under a new light -which was great, because it was precisely because of Greg that he had left in the first place.

Janice had probably suspected something but she didn't ask and Gil didn't tell. He told her a lot of things except the truth about his trip. He couldn't tell her that he'd left Las Vegas because he'd seen Greg with somebody else.

Grissom opened a drawer and took his cell phone and pager. As he turned them on, he remembered the events that had culminated with his trip to Oregon.

It all started more than a week ago on a Friday morning, right at the end of his shift. Greg hadn't been in the night before and Grissom missed him. On a whim, he decided to drop by the young man's apartment with a surprise invitation to breakfast. Since it was Greg's day off, he was bound to still be in bed.

He wasn't.

When Gil drove by Greg's building, he was surprised to see the young man standing on the sidewalk, very much awake and talking animatedly to a guy. Gil could only see Greg's back but the guy's face was visible and instantly recognizable.

It was the guy from the nightclub, what's-his-name.

Tim. The guy who kept calling Greg at all hours…

Grissom didn't slow down. He drove on purposefully, as if he'd never intended to drop by Greg's home in the first place. He took a quick glance, just to make sure that Greg didn't notice the Tahoe. Greg's gaze remained on Tim.

Gil didn't really saw the look on Greg's face, but he didn't miss the way his hand was resting on Tim's shoulder.

--

Gil drove aimlessly for a while. He couldn't go home and he couldn't go back to the lab either. He just couldn't face anybody.

And yet, he didn't want to be alone, either; his thoughts were too confusing. To keep from becoming a prey to them, Gil turned into the highway. By focusing on the road, he avoided having to think of what he'd just seen.

Eventually, Gil returned to his office. He sat behind his desk and after a moment's hesitation, picked up the phone and dialed Catherine's number. Then he e-mailed Janice.

"I need a rest," he said to both women and they believed him.

The truth was, Grissom didn't just leave Las Vegas; he _fled_. Seeing Greg with another man had stirred feelings in him; dangerous feelings that he didn't want to own up to: jealousy, envy.

'The downside of being in love,' he thought bitterly.

Before the day was over, he was on his way to Portland. He was sure that distance would help him make a decision about Greg. Being away would give him the strength to put an end to the relationship and resume his former role as boss.

It didn't work that way.

Instead, he found himself looking at his relationship with Greg from a different perspective.

It wasn't even a relationship, in the first place.

Whatever it was that they had was… Well, it was not enough, but it was more than he'd had in a long time. When he remembered all that he had lost by rejecting John's friendship, he realized he didn't want to go through anything like that ever again.

He would take Greg's friendship in whatever form it took; he would _share_ it, if it came to that.

So, with this new outlook on life, Gil returned to Las Vegas. And as he pocketed his cell phone and pager, he realized he was glad that things had turned out the way they did.

He picked up the smallest package he'd brought and set out to look for his colleagues. He was ready to face them now.

He was ready to see Greg.

---

"Not quite," he said, just as Catherine and the others were about to leave the conference room.

They all looked up sharply in his direction.

Catherine was the first to speak.

"Well, well," she said, "Our weary traveler's back. Did you enjoy the Pyramids?"

"I didn't go to Egypt."

Grissom smiled to himself. By the looks they were giving him, it was obvious that his colleagues were just as curious as the others to know all about his vacation.

Catherine was looking expectantly at him.

"Well, if you didn't go to Egypt, then where did you go?"

"_If_ he went anywhere," Nick mumbled under his breath.

"Not to Hawaii, that's for sure," Warrick said, eyeing Grissom critically, "He's paler than when he left."

"That means he spent his vacation doing research," Nick said, glancing at his colleagues, "Which is exactly what I said he would do."

Grissom let them talk.

He was taking the ribbing good-naturedly enough, the smile on his face effectively masking his concern over the fact that Greg hadn't joined in the conversation. The young man wasn't even looking in his direction.

"He went to a museum," Sara was saying, "You can't get a tan in a museum."

"He can't get a tan in a basement, either," Nick countered.

"Actually," Grissom said, cutting into the comments, "I did go out."

Everybody looked at him in surprise.

"I went to Portland," he said quietly.

"Portland?" asked Nick.

"Oregon," Grissom said with a nod.

"Oh, really?" Catherine asked skeptically. "And did you bring us a souvenir?"

"Oregon?" Warrick frowned, "Was there a bug convention there, or something?"

"No, there was not," Grissom said, "But I visited the museums," he said with a nod to Sara, "And yes, I brought you a souvenir," he added, putting a box on the table.

He smiled at the effect that these words had on his colleagues. They were gaping. Well, all except for Greg, who had looked up sharply when he heard him mention Portland and then looked down again.

"There's a key-ring for everyone," Grissom said, and he tilted the box so the gold-plated key-rings spilled on the table.

Sara picked up one.

"They're engraved!" she said, "Here," she added, handing one to Warrick, "This one's yours."

Warrick looked at it.

"Portland Union Station," he read.

"It's a historic landmark in Portland," Grissom said helpfully.

"Really?" asked Nick, examining his own key-ring with interest. "Collector's item #789," he read.

"Uh, these are valuable, then."

"Hey, Greg?" Sara said, "Here's yours," she said kindly.

Greg looked up.

"Uh?" he asked distractedly. "Uh, thanks," he said, barely looking at it.

Grissom didn't miss any of this but he was momentarily distracted by his coworkers' questions about Portland and by his cell phone suddenly coming to life.

Gil took the call, listened and then answered with a brief, 'All right.'

He looked at Catherine.

"Got to go," he announced reluctantly.

"A case?" asked Catherine.

"I doubt it," he said, "The Assistant Director wants to see me. Immediately," he added pointedly.

He was half-way out of the room when he heard Catherine call out, "Whatever he says, I didn't do it!"

Grissom sighed. He knew what awaited him at the A.D.'s office. It happened whenever he went away for a few days; the AD didn't like Catherine, and he never missed a chance to let Grissom know.

Fortunately -or unfortunately- Gil had other thoughts crowding his mind at the moment. He was puzzled by Greg's reaction. It's not like he expected the young man to jump and cheer at the mere sight of him but neither did he expect such an obvious lack of enthusiasm.

It wasn't like Greg.

----

TBC


	24. Chapter 24

DECISIONS

* * *

By the time Gil finally managed to get back to the lab, his colleagues were already gone. A quick check on the night's reports let him know where each and every one of them was, however, and one of the cases immediately caught his eye; Gabriel Broderick, age 68. B and E with assault. CSI in charge: Gregory Sanders. 

Gil picked up his kit and left.

---

People stood in small groups in front of the house at the end of the lane. The yellow tape fluttering between two police cars effectively kept them from getting too close, and the gates of the house prevented them from taking a look inside. Still, there they stood, as if waiting for something important to happen. They stepped aside to let a police car pass, only to regroup afterwards.

They looked with interest at the grey-haired man stepping off the car.

"Thanks for the lift," Grissom said. He walked towards the house, and the cop in charge of the scene immediately opened the gate.

He seemed relieved to see Grissom.

"Oh, good," he said, "Sanders is taking too long." Warily, he eyed the people standing on the other side of the tape, "Neighbors." he said, "They want answers and they want them now. They're starting to make me nervous."

Grissom glanced at them just before the gate closed.

"Well, they're nervous, too." Grissom said, "They've just found out they're not as safe as they thought."

The cop shrugged.

"Sanders is inside," he said, pointing at the house behind him.

Grissom walked the short driveway leading to a surprisingly modest house.

Once inside, Grissom stood in the foyer, getting acquainted with the feel of the house. Outside, it looked neglected; inside, it was the very model of understated elegance and wealth.

Faint noises caught Gil's attention and he walked in their direction. A faint light visible under a door at the end of the hallway guided him.

Grissom took a couple of latex gloves from a side pocket as he walked.

The door opened noiselessly into a darkened room. It was fairly large, and its high ceilings and numerous windows probably made it look even larger, but it was too dark to tell.

Signs of the break-in were plain to see, though; pieces of furniture and broken China were strewn around the room, and blank spaces on walls and shelves pointed at the perps' recent activities.

Apart from a desk lamp near the door, the only light came from the maglite in Greg's hand. He was crouching in the middle of the room, carefully swabbing a rug.

"Hey," Grissom said.

Greg looked up sharply.

"Grissom?" he seemed surprised, "What are you doing here?"

"I heard you were working alone. I thought I'd give you hand." Grissom set his kit down, "What've you got?"

"The intruders knew what they wanted," Greg said, "They weren't interested in the big stuff -you know, electric appliances, sculptures. The other rooms were not disturbed. But here's a different story. Take a look," he said, aiming the beam of his light to the opposite side of the room.

There was an open safe on the wall.

"They took money and all negotiable documents."

"Do you know what else they took?"

Greg picked up a sheet of paper from a pocket.

"According to the insurance company, Mr. Crawford kept sculptures and paintings, and a collection of Emerson photogravures," he said, stumbling a little on the last word.

Grissom's eyebrows rose.

"Those could be priceless," he said.

"Exactly," Greg nodded. "They advised Mr. Crawford to put them in a bank vault but he refused."

Grissom turned his own Maglite on the wall. The blank spaces made sense now. The photogravures had hung there.

"He couldn't admire them in a bank," Grissom said thoughtfully. "This was his own museum." He glanced around, noticing the few trophies and mementos that had been left behind. The perps had discriminating tastes.

"Check this out." Greg said, pointing his light on the rug.

Grissom walked up closer and saw the drops of blood.

"Cast-off," Grissom said.

"He was attacked here," Greg said.

"Did you take samples?"

"It was the first thing I did, Grissom," He replied testily.

Grissom looked at him for a moment.

"I'll do the safe," he said quietly.

They worked steadily for half an hour. All along, Grissom kept glancing at the young man, looking for some sign that things were ok with him.

What he did was confirm his earlier impression that something was the matter with Greg. He was never this quiet. Greg took his job seriously, but he wasn't a quiet worker. He was constantly making comments or asking questions. Or he sang something. Or he moved his head to some song playing only in his head.

Greg's silence was disturbing.

After finishing with the safe, Grissom picked up a silver cup to check it for fingerprints. He glanced at Greg.

"So," he said casually, "Had a good week while I was away?"

"Sure." Greg said without looking up. After a moment, he asked a perfunctory, "What about you?"

"I did ok," Grissom said.

"Good," Greg said, and then he turned to lift one of the heavy tables that had been toppled over.

Grissom sneaked a glance and noticed how Greg's muscles shifted under the strain. He wasn't surprised by the sight of the bulging biceps -he already knew how deceptive Greg's lanky looks were- but he was absolutely blown away by how strong Greg really was.

Grissom had always managed to keep his personal feelings in check while they were on the job, yet for a brief moment he couldn't help wondering what it would be like to take Greg in this room; grab him and push him against the nearest wall and kiss him and touch him, and feel that strong body come alive under his fingers -

And the thing is, he _knew_ what it would be like. He knew Greg's body; he could never get enough of it -

Grissom abruptly looked away.

His hands were shaking slightly and his heart was beating fast.

He closed his eyes impatiently. He couldn't believe this had just happened. This wasn't the right place to fantasize about Greg, for God's sake.

To make matters worse, Greg chose that moment to speak.

"So," he said, "Portland, huh?"

Grissom took a deep breath before answering with a casual, "Yeah."

"So, why all the secrecy?" Greg asked. He waited until Grissom looked at him to add, "People were worried, you know. They thought you were sick or something. Wouldn't surprise me if some of them spent some sleepless nights."

Grissom snorted softly.

"I find that hard to believe," he said.

Greg averted his gaze. He finished collecting samples and put the table back where it was. He noticed that Grissom was still looking at him.

"So, how's Janice?" Greg asked. "I mean, I assume you stayed with her."

"She's ok."

"Great."

Grissom kept his gaze on Greg, hoping for another question. He resented people intruding into his private life, but this time he almost craved it.

He tried to keep the conversation going.

"She planned so many activities that in the end, we only did about half," he said, "She even tried to take me camping but it started to rain. Actually, it rained almost every day -"

"Bummer." Greg muttered.

"I didn't mind. I like the way it rains in the North." Gil said, warming up to the subject, "The water doesn't wash away the way it does in Vegas; it actually penetrates the soil and nurtures it. I liked that about Portland; there are parks everywhere. It reminded me of college -"

"So, you had fun," Greg said, cutting into Gil's reminiscence.

"I did," Grissom said. It was obvious that Greg wasn't interested in hearing about the trip, but Gil was lost in his thoughts and didn't notice, "Maybe it was the fact that I didn't plan any of it," he said thoughtfully, "I let Janice decide what I was going to do every day. I don't remember ever doing anything like that before."

"Good for you," Greg said, turning his attention back to his job. He picked up his kit and walked to another part of the room.

He didn't remain silent for long, however.

"I was wondering why she didn't e-mail me this past week," he said, "Now I know. You must have kept her busy."

Grissom, who was lifting fingerprints from the silver cup, paused. It was odd. Judging by the tone of Greg's voice, anyone would have thought he was jealous… Or merely resentful? It was hard to tell.

"Wow," Greg said suddenly, "Take a look at this."

Grissom looked in his direction. Greg was standing by the fireplace.

"That's not a real fireplace, is it?" Grissom asked.

"Electric," Greg said. "But that's not what I want you to look at. Here," he said, turning his Maglite on a row of containers in various shapes that stood on the marble mantelpiece.

Grissom looked but didn't move.

"What are those?"

"Urns," Greg replied. "It seems Mr. Broderick has the ashes of his entire family here." he added, turning to read the inscriptions. "'Michael Thomas Broderick, beloved uncle;' 'Marianne Donahue, cousin;' 'Buffy Schnauzer, best friend'-" his voice trailed off but he kept reading.

Suddenly, he turned.

"By the way," he said, "You've never told me what you did with John Garrison's ashes."

Grissom almost dropped his jar of fingerprint powder.

Greg purposefully aimed his Maglite straight at Grissom's face.

"Well?" he asked.

Grissom blinked uncomfortably under the glare, but didn't answer. Greg's question was completely unexpected -and unwelcome. Not even Janice had dared to ask.

Luckily for him, Greg didn't insist. Without a word, the young man turned away and continued checking on the fireplace.

They avoided each other after that. They didn't speak until they were finished.

----

Grissom closed his kit while Greg was still labeling his evidence.

"See you at the lab," Greg said without looking up.

"They're still overhauling the Tahoe." Grissom said, leaning against the wall. "I'm gonna need a ride."

Greg looked up.

"Oh. Ok," he said expressionlessly.

By now Grissom knew for sure that something was the matter with Greg.

With any other member of his team, he would have simply asked what the matter was. But with Greg things weren't as simple. He didn't how to approach Greg; he didn't know whether to talk to him as the boss or as the -

The what? Grissom found himself at a loss. What was he, anyway? Not a lover or a boyfriend. A friend; a 'friend with benefits', as he'd heard a perp say after making a confession about the parasitic relationship he was in.

Friend or not, Gil knew he'd been reaping the benefits of being Greg's boss. Whether the benefits were one-sided or not, it was something only Greg knew for sure. Gil liked to believe he was giving Greg some pleasure too, but the fact remained that as the boss, he had all the advantages while Greg had none.

There was no equality in their relationship. He'd been talking about taking only what Greg offered, but it wasn't like Greg had any choice in the matter.

The thought made Gil uncomfortable. It filled him with guilt, too. He certainly didn't want Greg to feel used.

Part of him protested against this assessment. Greg was perfectly capable of standing up for himself. He'd done it several times, most recently when he chided Grissom for not trusting Mia enough. It wasn't like Greg would meekly accept a situation he wasn't happy in.

But then, that was work.

Sex as an entirely different matter.

The question was, would Greg say or do anything that might hurt his boss' feelings?

A couple of days before, Grissom would have said no. But now…

Now, all of a sudden, Greg's behavior took a new meaning in Gil's mind.

It seemed that the young man had run out of patience at last.

Grissom was surprised. Deep down, he'd never thought Greg would ever have the guts to end the relationship.

Apparently, he was wrong.

Grissom looked at this new development with deliberate detachment -the same detachment that helped him deal with horrific situations in his job. When Gil faced a problem, he looked objectively at it and then acted accordingly, regardless of any personal consideration. He simply did what was right.

Here was a chance to be fair to Greg.

"Everything ok, Greg?" he asked abruptly.

"Sure," Greg said casually.

"It doesn't look like it is." Grissom said gently.

Greg glanced at him.

"Well, an old guy was attacked here, Grissom," he said in a patronizing tone. "He couldn't have put out much of a fight, yet heavy furniture was overturned in the struggle. Which means the scene may have been staged. Which means the old guy is probably lying. So, no, things are not ok."

Grissom smiled faintly.

"I'm not talking about the job, Greg," he said patiently, "I mean with you." When Greg didn't say anything, he added, "If there's something in your mind, then maybe we should talk."

Greg snorted.

"Talking's not your forte, Grissom."

"Well, then _you_ talk and I'll listen," Grissom said good-naturedly.

Greg shifted uncomfortably. He obviously didn't think he could talk freely.

Grissom felt it was up to him to put him at ease.

"Greg?" he said, and he waited until Greg looked up. Greg's skepticism was still plain on his face. "We're friends," Gil said quietly, "Friends tell each other everything -"

Greg snorted.

"_You_ don't tell me everything," he replied.

Grissom was taken aback. His gaze shifted involuntarily to the urns on the fireplace and then back at Greg, who in turn looked down and continued putting his evidence away.

Grissom hesitated. He opened his mouth to say something but didn't. He tried twice before he finally found something to say.

"You're right," he said. "I don't tell you everything."

Greg didn't look up. He was busy securing his evidence.

"I didn't tell you about -" Gil paused.

Try as he might, he just couldn't utter John's name.

"I didn't tell you about _his_ ashes because-"

Greg looked up.

Grissom met his gaze, but words failed him.

"I can't," he said simply, "I can't talk about him."

Greg stared at him. He nodded.

"It's ok," He said dismissively. "I don't even know why I mentioned it," he added with a shrug. "It's none of my business, anyway."

He picked up his kit and went to the door.

* * *

TBC

Next, a reconciliation of sorts.


	25. Chapter 25

Decisions

Spoilers: Compulsion, (a coffee shop recycles its coffee containers, 'and not in a good way,' as Mia says).

Loving Bear Donuts appeared in 'Dilemma' but the coffee was better there than here.

* * *

It was towards dawn that Greg finally drove back to the lab. 

He drove in stubborn silence, his eyes focused on the road.

He didn't once look in Gil's direction, yet couldn't help being aware of him all the same. Out of a corner of his eye, Greg followed Grissom's every move.

Grissom, on the other hand, seemed blissfully unaware of his surroundings. His attention was entirely focused on the notes he'd made at the crime scene; he read, made a few notations, and then read some more.

Silence didn't bother Grissom; it was his element, so to speak.

Grissom could spend hours and hours without saying a word, but for Greg it was torture. The young man found himself wishing Nick or Sara were there instead of Grissom. With them in the car, he would have at least turned on the radio.

Not that Grissom would object to him turning on the radio; Greg just didn't want to do anything that might seem like an opening for conversation. What Greg wanted now was to get to the lab, log in his evidence, check on his schedule for the day after, and then-

"Let's grab a cup of coffee," Grissom said suddenly.

Greg almost jumped in surprise.

"What?" he asked, "Where?" There were nothing but warehouses as far as he could see.

But Grissom seemed to know the area well.

"Right there," he said, pointing at the next block. A huge bear made of plaster stood on the sidewalk, pointing towards a cheerful coffee shop.

"_Loving Bear Donuts_?" Greg asked incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me!"

"You see any other coffee place around?"

Greg dutifully turned into the parking lot but he wasn't happy.

"This is like the bottom of the barrel," he muttered. He glanced at Grissom, who was unbuckling his seat belt. "Haven't you learned anything from me after all this time?"

"Yes," Grissom replied as he opened the door, "I've learned to depend too much on coffee."

He returned with two containers and offered one to Greg.

Greg took the lid off his cup and carefully inspected the rim.

"What are you doing?" Grissom frowned.

"I'm looking for any signs that the cup was previously used."

"Mia's rubbing off on you," Grissom muttered in disapproval. He gulped some coffee and grimaced.

Greg chuckled.

"_Tasty_, huh?" he taunted.

"Very," Grissom replied ironically.

Greg sniffed at his own cup.

"It stinks," was the verdict.

"Diesel-strength coffee." Grissom agreed, taking a sip.

"Maybe they should start opening Loving Bear gas stations, then," Greg said, but the sarcasm was softened by a faint smile, and Grissom found himself smiling back.

"You don't have to drink it," Gil said magnanimously, "I needed the caffeine jolt. I drove to the lab straight from the airport, so -"

"You did?" Greg was surprised, "Then you must be beat -"

"I'm ok," Grissom said, taking another sip of coffee.

"You should go home, Grissom. I can log in your evidence if you want -"

Gil shook his head.

"I've got to go back to the lab, anyway. There's some stuff I brought from Portland in my fridge."

"Don't tell me you brought some DNA samples from Portland."

Grissom smiled but didn't comment.

Greg turned his attention back to his cup of coffee. That brief conversation had reminded him of the easy banter that characterized their moments together. He'd missed it.

Greg was starting to feel safe in the bubble of their easy friendship, when Grissom burst it.

"So," he said, "Everything ok, Greg?"

"Sure," Greg said casually.

Grissom kept a thoughtful gaze on Greg.

"For a moment I thought maybe you were pissed off at me."

Greg winced. So, Grissom had noticed. That was not good.

Greg shook his head.

"Everything's cool," he said.

"You sure?" Grissom pressed on.

Greg resorted to the same patronizing tone he'd used earlier in the night.

"You're my boss, Grissom," he said, "I'm not supposed to be angry at my boss."

"Tell that to the others," Grissom said dryly, "Everybody's been angry at me at some point; Sara, Warrick, Nick, Catherine -"

"And what do you do -take them to Loving Bear Donuts?"

"No," Gil replied evenly, "Usually, I simply call them into my office." He paused and then he added, with a tired grin. "Sometimes, they simply drop in when I least expect them to." He lifted his Styrofoam cup, "This is a first for me."

Grissom kept looking at him, and Greg squirmed under the scrutiny. To hide his confusion, he lifted the cup of coffee to his lips. Before he took a sip, however, he was struck by a sudden idea.

"You know what?" he said, starting to pat his pockets, "I bet a donut would make this coffee more palatable."

"Nothing could make it more palatable," Grissom muttered.

"Well, I'm gonna try anyway," Greg said, pulling a wrinkled five-dollar bill, "I'll be right back -"

"Wait." Grissom said just as Greg was about to open the door. "Don't bother. I've got some bacon-maple donuts in my office."

"Bacon-maple donuts?" Greg frowned.

"Fresh from the oven," Grissom added enticingly. Then he amended, "At least they were fresh from the oven this morning."

"They make donuts _with_ bacon?"

"They're a Portland delicacy. You never heard of them?"

"Actually, no."

"You're gonna like them," Grissom said confidently.

Greg eyed him quizzically.

"You brought me donuts?"

"I brought a dozen. I'm gonna give you half," he added in what he obviously felt was a very generous offer.

"Half?" Greg repeated.

"Hey, six are plenty," Grissom replied in an mock-injured tone.

But Greg wasn't objecting to the number of donuts; he was just surprised at Grissom's gesture.

"I got you a shirt too," Grissom said casually. "I left it in my car, along with a couple of gifts that Janice sent you."

Greg opened his mouth and then closed it.

"You got me a shirt?" he asked at last.

"Yeah. A white shirt to replace the one you've been wearing in court. The cuffs are a bit frayed."

"I didn't notice," Greg said mechanically.

"Well, I did."

Greg didn't know what to say. He didn't feel he deserved getting gifts from Grissom; not after the hostile thoughts he'd been harboring against Gil, and certainly not after acting like a spoiled brat all night long.

Greg glanced into his coffee cup again. Maybe drinking this shitty coffee would be like doing penance? With this thought in mind, he lifted the cup and took a big gulp. It burned his throat just as if he'd swallowed a shot of whisky, and his painful grimace didn't go unnoticed.

Grissom gently removed the cup from Greg's fingers.

"You've had enough," Grissom said, as if the cup really held whisky and not third-rate coffee.

With nothing in his hands to hold on to, Greg put them on the steering wheel. He glanced at Grissom, half-expecting him to still be looking at him, waiting for an answer to his earlier question, but Gil's attention was elsewhere. The older man was patting his shirt pockets, searching for something. When he found it, he put it on the dashboard. It was a piece of paper folded in an odd shape.

"Take a look at this," Gil said, lightly tapping a corner of the paper.

It sprang, making a perfect arc in the air and landing on Greg's side.

Greg blinked at the sight of the little object falling on the steering wheel. He picked it up. The paper was folded in a distinctive way that he immediately recognized.

"Oh, my God," he said, a tinge of amusement in his voice, "It's the leaping frog." Greg examined the little origami figure. "Where did you get it?"

"I made it," Gil said. "Origami 101," he added when he saw the look of disbelief on Greg's face, "Janice forced me to take a class with her."

"Janice?" Greg asked skeptically, "_She_'s interested in origami?"

"Not really. She just wanted to meet the instructor."

"The instructor?"

Grissom smiled at Greg's incredulity.

"Janice has mellowed out lately," he explained, "Would you believe she sat for three hours, mangling sheet after sheet of paper, just to meet this guy?"

"No," Greg said in all honesty.

"I couldn't believe it either. It seems Las Vegas had a bad effect on her."

"What about the guy? Did he notice her?"

"It was hard not to." Grissom said ironically, "She was all thumbs. But it worked," he added, surprised at this last fact. "The guy paid a lot attention to her and ended up asking her out."

"Well. Good for him," Greg said. Noticing Gil's frown, he added, "Hey, she's a doctor. She's a pretty good catch."

Grissom's eyebrows lifted at this assessment of Janice.

Greg smiled.

"So," he said, "What else did you learn to do?"

"I did the butterfly; didn't have much luck with the grasshopper -"

"Insects, of course," Greg muttered good-naturedly.

" -but I did learn to fold a dog that actually barks."

"You did?" Greg asked with interest, "I can never make mine bark."

"It's not that difficult," Grissom said, none too humbly, "You must be missing a step."

Greg smiled faintly at this. Grissom was showing off –something he did whenever he learned something new. Some people found this trait irritating, but Greg thought it was cute. Gil's insatiable quest for learning made him try his hand at anything -and be the best at it. Even origami.

Greg looked down. He still had the leaping frog in his hands. He put it back on the dashboard and tapped its behind, making it jump again.

Grissom's hand suddenly shot out and captured it in mid-air.

He looked questioningly at Greg.

"Are you still pissed off at me?" he asked.

Greg hesitated. He held Gil's gaze for a moment and then he peered outside, as if the answer to the question was somewhere out there.

A couple of days ago -a couple of hours ago- he would have answered that question with a definite yes. He was pissed off at Gil for leaving, for stirring feelings in him -feelings he didn't want to acknowledge but couldn't deny either: anger, disappointment, a sense of betrayal. Definitely not the kind of things he wanted to discuss with Gil.

...Except that it was Gil himself who was offering him a chance to speak up.

Greg looked at the passing cars for a while, until he realized he wasn't looking outside anymore but at his own reflection on the window.

He took a deep breath.

He really didn't know where to begin. He was going to give it a try, though. He cleared his throat -

And just as he was about to start, he felt Grissom's fingers tentatively touch the back of his neck.

Greg tilted his head away in a half-hearted attempt to avoid touch, but Grissom didn't seem to notice. His hand slowly took hold of Greg's neck and then it simply lay there -warm and reassuring. Heavy.

Greg didn't look at Grissom. Instead, he held his breath. He knew what was coming. It was something he called The Grissom Physical Exam. When Gil touched him like this, his fingers usually sneaked down and carefully followed the contours of Greg's cervical vertebrae, as if they were making sure that everything was as it should be.

Greg exhaled as he felt the slightest of movements from Gil's fingertips; a gentle caress that grew more assuredly as the fingers traced the shape of each vertebrae: C6... C7...

Reluctantly, Greg closed his eyes. He hated to admit this, but he kinda enjoyed those 'exams'. He liked Gil's touch. Missed it, in fact.

Part of him wanted to resist. It wasn't fair; Grissom had given him a chance to speak only to take it away before Greg could even make up his mind. But he didn't have time to dwell on this because he knew what was coming next: Pleasure, radiating from the single spot under Gil's fingers to the rest of his body.

Under Grissom's touch, any part of the body turned into an erogenous zone.

Greg groaned.

He was suddenly aware of Grissom's breath, hot against his cheek. Then he was aware of Grissom's mouth, almost touching his but without moving any further.

It seemed that, once again, Grissom was leaving it up to Greg to decide.

Greg glanced at Grissom. Gil's eyes were closed -no surprise, there. He never looked -

It didn't matter. Greg wanted that kiss -they hadn't kissed in quite a while. The job had kept them apart even before Grissom left Las Vegas.

Grissom's mouth tasted of that awful coffee but this only seemed to encourage Greg more. He wanted to remove all traces of that coffee from Gil's mouth, and Grissom was just as eager to return the favor.

Too soon they had to pull away to take a breath, but they stayed close nonetheless.

Greg chuckled.

"That was a very dirty kiss," he said huskily.

"Hmmm," Gil nodded, leaning forward for another. Their mouths were barely touching when a pager suddenly went off. They looked up at the same time.

"Yours or mine?"

They both reached for their pagers.

"Mine," Greg said regretfully.

"We gotta go, anyway," Gil said, leaning back in his seat.

Greg concurred. They were making out in a Police Department vehicle. What were they thinking?

Grissom started to buckle up but paused for a moment.

"Greg? About what I said before…" he said, "If there's something you want to discuss -"

Greg almost rolled his eyes. Right. Like he was going to talk about that _now_. It didn't seem important, anymore.

"Nah," he said, "It's ok."

He reached for the ignition key but didn't turn it. He glanced at Grissom.

"Hum… Grissom? You have plans? For later, I mean."

"I have to go home," Gil said tentatively.

"Oh. Of course."

"Why?"

"Well... I was thinking that I've got a pound of Blue Hawaiian coffee -"

"Forty-dollars-a-pound Blue Hawaiian?" asked Grissom.

"It's forty-five now," Greg replied smugly.

Grissom kept his gaze on Greg.

"I like that coffee," he admitted quietly.

"Then maybe you could drop by later," Greg said, "I'm going home early today," he added, "I've been pulling doubles all week and I'm beat."

Gil paused as if he actually needed to think it over.

"I guess I could drop by," he said, "I've got to give you Janice's gifts after all."

"And the shirt."

"Ah, yes. The shirt."

"And the donuts," Greg added, "Don't forget the donuts."

Grissom smiled faintly.

"I won't." He said.

"It's settled, then," Greg said more confidently. "I'll have the coffee ready."

"Ok."

"Some paper, too," Greg said, giving Gil a suspicious look, "I wanna find out how much you really know about origami."

Grissom's eyebrows shot up.

"You don't believe me?"

Greg only smiled.

He was glad that Gil was back. He suddenly wanted to say it out loud…

But he didn't.

* * *

TBC

Thank you for reviewing...

Note: While I was writing this and the other post-Portland chapters, I accidentally tuned in an Anthony Bourdain show. He was visiting Portland, of all places! I found out about 'bacon-maple donuts' there .


	26. Chapter 26

DECISIONS

The ant story Gil tells is based on 'Ants' by Chet Williamson.

The phrase 'He was shy of tears…' is from the short story 'Taboo' by Geoffrey Household.

* * *

Grissom took a sip of water from the bottle in his hand, then glanced at the window. It was raining. The day loomed grey and cold, but Greg's bed was warm and cozy, and Gil was glad he'd accepted the young man's invitation to come. 

"Well?" Greg said, interrupting his musings.

Grissom glanced at Greg but didn't immediately reply.

They were lying next to each other under the covers, their bodies still warm and sweaty from their recent love-making. Staying in bed after sex was a luxury Gil rarely indulged in, and he wanted to savor the moment. This was the more relaxed he'd been in a long time and he liked the feeling. Suddenly, anything seemed possible.

For instance, he found it only too easy to believe that the look on Greg's eyes was one of adoration, not expectation. And he could easily fantasize that they were not coworkers killing time after sex but lovers holding an intimate conversation. Any time soon, one of them would say something like, 'I love you,' or 'I've never loved anybody like this,' or… Well, whatever one says to a loved one in similar circumstances.

What Grissom really wanted to say was, 'I miss you back at the lab,' and 'I wish Ecklie hadn't decided to reinforce the annual vacation program.' Not the most romantic of phrases, but certainly more romantic than the words he actually uttered:

"Mr. Piersall had sought refuge in the bathroom, but the ants inevitably found him."

Greg smiled and nodded. He'd obviously expected this twist in the tale.

"There were only a few at first," Gil said, "Then more and more, until the floor, the walls, and even the door, were covered by a black, glossy, squirming layer."

"Oh, man," Greg muttered. "I know how that is. Back when I was living in New York, there were these huge cockroaches -" he stopped. "But I digress," he added, motioning Gil to continue.

Grissom smiled.

"Mr. Piersall's first reaction was one of disbelief," Gil said, "It didn't seem possible that y these lowly creatures would band together against him; but when the ants started to fall on him like kamikaze warriors, he realized he was facing a powerful, well-organized enemy. Too late did he realize that he'd effectively locked himself away in the bathroom. He made for the door but that first step he took was the last; the sound –and the feel- of a thousand ants being crushed under his foot was too much to bear.

"He froze. Killing like this just wasn't his style," Gil added thoughtfully, "He was a coward; he used insecticide. Anyway, Mr. Piersall was at the end of his tether, and so he looked around and cried, 'What do you want from me? I'll do anything!'

He paused for effect, then continued, "The next day, Mr. Piersall went to the grocery store like he did every morning. Only instead of asking for ant killer like he always did, he asked for a gallon of male syrup."

Greg chuckled appreciatively.

"To the guy behind the counter, this was odd enough," Gil said, "But there was something that struck him as odder, and he would mention it time and time again after Mr. Piersall disappeared. "'Mr. Piersall was shivering,'" he said, "'He was shivering, even though it was a scorching Summer day. He was shivering despite the glossy black scarf tightly wrapped around his neck…'"

"An ant scarf!" Greg exclaimed gleefully.

"An ant scarf," Gil nodded, then added, "The End." His story finished, he drank the rest of the water, then put the bottle back on the bedside table.

When he turned back, he noticed that Greg was still looking at him, only this time there was a bemused expression on his face.

"What?" Gil asked, but Greg only shook his head, the smile –and the gaze- still in place.

Gil glanced away and for a moment, he simply lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the gentle patter of the rain. He took a deep, satisfied breath. Again, he congratulated himself on his decision to stay. Usually, he could hardly wait to leave this room, urged by work and personal engagements and -why deny it? – sheer fear of intimacy. But this was nice, he realized; there was something deeply satisfying about staying in bed, basking in the afterglow of sex and the warmth of a body next to his.

Gil rarely took the time to examine his feelings but he he did an exception this time, and was surprised at how happy he felt. Hopeful. For the first time, he actually felt like he belonged in this room and in this bed –that he belonged with Greg.

It was a nice change from the way he'd been feeling lately. Ever since his return from Portland he'd been cautious around Greg. The young man's less-than-warm reception took him by surprise back then, as did the conversation they had afterwards. It was tense and unfriendly, and the only reason it didn't turn into a full-blown argument was because they were at a crime scene.

They'd had a reconciliation of sorts, but Gil still felt uneasy. He'd been avoiding Greg lately, though so skillfully that Greg hadn't caught on it yet. What he did was assign Greg to work with others, thus cutting down their chances for conversation. Usually, by the time they got together, they were just too exhausted to talk -sex on top of a 24-hour shift tended to drain every bit of energy from them. Then Ecklie had inadvertently helped Gil avoid Greg by deciding that all CSIs should take their vacation time in a lump instead of taking days off throughout the year.

Which meant that Greg was on a two-week vacation he hadn't planned for. The poor guy was 'kinda bored' (his own words), and so when he called Grissom at midnight, asking him to drop by, Grissom took pity on him. Gil had never left work before the end of the shift, but now he was glad that he did.

Very glad.

He casually glanced at Greg, only to find that the young man was still looking at him, the slight smile still in place.

Grissom looked back at the ceiling again, but now he was conscious of Greg's gaze on him.

It was unsettling.

It wasn't like he'd never been somebody's scrutiny, but it was one thing to be observed at the lab, and quite another to be watched while he was in bed. Not being a vain person, the thought that maybe –just maybe- Greg was simply admiring the view never occurred to him.

Then there was the silence; it wasn't like Greg to be this quiet –but then, it wasn't like Greg to stay awake after sex in the first place. Usually, he simply turned his back on Gil and passed out –which in turn gave Grissom a chance to make a quiet exit. But that morning Greg had simply rolled onto his side, folded an arm under his pillow, then looked at Grissom as if he were expecting something, only he wouldn't say what. And it was the silence that finally got to Gil. He, who was usually comfortable with silence –and sometimes even craved it- suddenly started looking for ways to break it. Hence, the ant story.

Now, as he looked at the ceiling, Gil started to wonder about Greg's behavior. Did he act like this when he was with men his own age, for instance? Somehow, Gil didn't think Greg would lie quietly like this. He would say something at least. With such a wide range of interests, surely he'd find something to talk about. Or maybe he didn't talk but play some kind of game?

It wasn't that Gil actually _wanted_ to know what Greg did with other men. He was simply curious. What if there was some sort of post-coital etiquette that he wasn't aware of? Maybe there were some activities that might help make this relationship –or whatever it was that he and Greg had going- more acceptable. He didn't want Greg to miss anything.

Grissom was mulling this over when suddenly, it dawned on him that he'd just done something that was probably a big no-no as far as post-coital activities went: tell horror stories in bed.

He froze.

_Nice going_, he thought ruefully. Who told horror stories in bed? No one; absolutely no one. And they weren't even good horror stories -not by today's standards. They weren't gory or bloody enough; they were old-fashioned stories, the kind where danger and menace were left to the imagination and you had to suspend disbelief to enjoy.

No wonder Greg had that amused look on his face.

Gil closed his eyes and held back a groan.

"You look like you've just remembered leaving the iron plugged-in." Greg said suddenly.

Grissom opened his eyes. Greg hadn't moved; he was still looking at him, the amused smile still in place.

Gil looked away.

"Hum, Grissom?" Greg waited until Gil glanced in his direction, "You want to sleep or something?" And he solicitously reached for the headboard light.

Gil shook his head.

"It's ok," he said. Darkness would have given him some respite but he refused to act like an old man needing his sleep. He'd always made it a point to keep up with Greg as best as he could; if the young man didn't want to sleep, then he wouldn't either.

But if Greg wanted to talk, then he'd have to start a conversation himself because Gil had decided not to open his mouth again any time soon.

He only wished he'd come to this decision sooner.

He still couldn't understand why he'd told those stories. What was he thinking? If he was hoping to coax Greg into sleep, then he'd failed miserably; Greg seemed perkier than ever. And if he'd only done it to fill in the silence, then the question remained: Why tell horror stories? Why not just quote a science article, for instance?

And suddenly, the answer came to him with a name and a face: John.

John had loved horror stories.

To everyone -professors and students- John was a no-nonsense scientist; but there was another side of him that few ever knew. A dreamy side. John used to read horror stories; horror, sci-fi, fantasy -it didn't matter, as long as he could lose himself in an alternate reality.

It was a trait that he shared with Gil. In fact, reading became their favorite post-coital activity. They used to spend entire evenings in bed, reading aloud from Gil's second-hand book collection and John's old Weird Tales magazines, or simply recounting something they'd read before.

Sometimes they would stop and reread something, either to memorize it or just to savor the sound of a well-thought-out phrase.

There was a phrase from that time that Gil still remembered because it summed up John so well: '…_he was shy of tears and laughter, and he had armed his whole soul against them…_' and John had merely nodded when he heard it, not offended at all. He loved books too much to resent them.

On hindsight, they were probably filling some emptiness left by their lonely, screwy childhoods. But the reason hardly mattered to Gil now; all he knew was that those were about the happiest times they'd shared.

Gil smiled wistfully as he imagined John's reaction to the ant story. He wouldn't have thought it odd that Gil would tell a horror story; he would have enjoyed it. And he would have appreciated the irony of a hunter being hunted by its supposedly-weaker prey…

"So, what's with the smile," Greg asked quietly.

Gil shook his head. He didn't want to explain. He didn't want to talk about John. It wasn't the right place for that. It seemed disloyal–

Gil paused over that last thought. Who was he being disloyal to? Greg or John?

"Thinking…. Thinking…" Greg muttered.

Grissom glanced at Greg and smiled reluctantly.

"It's a curse," he admitted sheepishly.

Greg smiled good-naturedly.

"So, what are you thinking of?"

"Something I read," Gil said, looking at the ceiling, and wishing Greg would turn his inquisitive gaze elsewhere. He didn't want to answer questions; didn't want to explain. Didn't know if he could do either, in the first place.

What he did know was that only a few minutes ago he'd been feeling content and now he was feeling guilty; guilty for thinking of John…. and for missing him.

His eyebrow moved almost imperceptibly at his last thought. He did miss John. He missed the easy relationship they'd had. 'Easy' wasn't a word he'd used before but it was valid; being with John _was_ easy. He would engage you in heated discussions about anything from the environment to politics but he didn't need to know what you did for Christmas, for instance. He didn't care about people's personal lives -which was all right with Gil, who definitely did _not_ want to talk about Christmas.

Greg, on the other hand, liked to know what you did for Christmas. He cared about people's personal lives.

And he was always asking, asking, asking…

As if on cue, Greg posed a question.

"Do you have any friends, Grissom?"

Gil frowned.

"Yeah," he said, as if the answer should be obvious, "You've met some of them."

"I'm talking about friends you see every day," Greg replied, "Or every week, or every month -" he let his voice trail off.

Grissom shrugged slightly.

"I see them occasionally," he said.

He didn't have to look at Greg to know that the answer wasn't satisfactory.

That was part of the problem in this relationship; no matter what he said, no matter how much information he volunteered, somehow it never measured up to Greg's expectations.

"So," Greg said, "These friends… Are any of them gay?"

Gil raised one eyebrow.

"I don't know," he said slowly.

"You don't?"

"I've never asked." He met Greg's incredulous gaze with a shrug, "It doesn't seem important."

"Well, I think it's good having friends one has something in common with."

"We have things in common," Gil replied. '_We don't pry into each other's lives, for one thing'_, he thought dryly. Aloud, he said, "We play chess on line. We watch the same baseball games, we exchange press articles -"

"You just don't talk about sex," Greg interjected.

"Not within a personal context," Gil said slowly. He didn't like this line of conversation. He didn't want to talk about these friends of his; he respected their privacy, just as they respected his. They were misfits - something they seemed to be proud of – but they were protective of each other. Somehow, he knew that Greg would never understand.

"So," Greg said, "How come you never talk about them?"

"There's nothing much to say," Gil shrugged, "Do _you_ tell me everything about your friends?"

"Yeah." Greg replied matter-of-factly.

And this was true. It was one of Greg's characteristics -his complete lack of reticence. He chattered freely about friends and family, and while he didn't actually disclose intimate aspects of their lives, what he revealed was enough to make Gil feel like he knew them personally.

There was a time, back in the beginning, when Gil felt flattered by Greg's willingness to talk about those friends. Gil would never admit it now, but he used to feel that Greg was conferring him some special privilege by sharing so much personal information with him.

Then one day, while discussing a case with Warrick, Gil had casually mentioned a cousin of Greg's with a knowledge on electronics. To his surprise, Warrick had replied just as casually, 'Ah, yeah; Curtis. He might know what to do. I'll give him a call.'

And in that brief moment, Gil realized that there was nothing privileged about Greg's brief personal revelations. He'd told others, too.

It was a wake-up call, and Gil was grateful for it. At the time, he'd been dangerously close to falling more deeply in love and, frankly, he couldn't afford to do that.

Greg interrupted his musings.

"I've told you everything about my friends," he said.

Not everything, Gil thought.

There was one friend Greg rarely mentioned, except in the vaguest of terms: Tim.

But then, Tim was probably not a 'friend.'

"Speaking of friends," Greg said suddenly, "Did you finally decide where to go for the Summer?"

"The Summer?" Gil asked, sincerely puzzled.

"Yeah," Greg said, "You, Janice, Dr. Bernie… You were supposed to go on a fishing trip together, remember?"

"Oh," Gil muttered cautiously. It was the first time that Greg alluded to that trip. "The Forensic Cruise, you mean," he added with tentative humor. "We're still discussing dates. It's difficult to get everybody together for a whole week."

"Why don't you take them to Lake Mead?" Greg asked. Without waiting for an answer, he added with growing enthusiasm, "The fishing's great, and having Las Vegas this close would be an added bonus; I bet the guys would jump at the idea of catching a couple of shows. And Janice would be happy to come back. She's said so over and over in her e-mails."

"Well -"

"I know; there is a draught," Greg said, as if Gil had actually voiced an objection. "But the fishing's still good. In fact, you can fish all through September and October. And the prices aren't as high as you might think. All you've got to do is rent a houseboat; if you take package deals, they take care of everything from licenses to gear. And -" he paused for a moment, then added enticingly, "With you this close, I could drop for a visit. I haven't scuba-dived in a long time."

Grissom took his time to reply.

The truth was, he'd already considered Lake Mead for the fishing trip. He researched prices and locations and even contacted a charter company, but in the end he'd abandoned the idea, ironically, because of Greg. Gil had decided long ago not to let him come near his friends ever again. Janice's recent visit had only served to reinforce this decision.

But Greg didn't know any of this, and right now he was looking at Gil as if he were actually expecting an invitation.

Grissom avoided the matter altogether by glancing at the ceiling again, and this time he found something legitimate to focus on; the spider web in the corner. It looked dusty and unkempt.

"Where's your spider?" he frowned.

"Uh? Oh, yeah," Greg said, glancing at the ceiling. "I forgot to tell you. The poor guy bit the dust last week. Literally -I found it entangled in a dust bunny. I gave it a hero's funeral in the bathroom."

Grissom tilted his head in the web's direction.

"And you didn't think of cleaning that up?"

"Nah," Greg shrugged, "I thought I'd leave it intact for my next tenant. There are plenty of spiders in the balcony."

The stared at the cobweb in silence.

"I could get you one," Gil said suddenly.

"What?"

"A spider," Gil said. "I could get you one."

Greg smiled.

"Ah, yeah," he said, "I heard you breed your own spiders."

"Who told that?" Gil frowned.

"Someone at the lab." Greg said evasively, almost guiltily. He glanced away. Idly, he stretched his arms until he touched the headboard, then he stretched his legs, too. He groaned at the effort, then winced at a popping sound his joints made. He took a couple of deep breaths, then let his body relax.

Greg closed his eyes, completely oblivious to the fact that the covers had slipped away due to his exertions.

Grissom wasn't as oblivious. He rarely got a chance to look at Greg and he didn't let it go to waste. He studied Greg's face for a moment, then let his gaze slowly travel down the young man's half-naked body, from the long, white neck to the chest, then to the abdomen.

Gil eyed him wistfully. He never voiced his feelings but this time he almost did.

"You're -" he started. _You're beautiful_, he wanted to say, only it didn't seem appropriate. Beautiful might not be the right word to describe a man. Yet another thing he needed to research…

Meanwhile, he got an eyeful. Greg's genitals were still under cover, but that was ok; the sight of Greg's belly was enticing enough. All Gil wanted to do was rub his face against it, feel the peach-like texture of the skin and kiss every inch of it. Taste it –

"What?" Greg asked.

Gil looked up and realized that Greg had caught him staring.

Before he could put up some explanation, Greg spoke again.

"I know," he said wearily, "I'm putting on weight, right?"

"What?" This time the word came from Grissom, who looked in disbelief as Greg mournfully patted his stomach.

It was flat as a surfboard but apparently Greg disagreed.

"Hey, it's not my fault," Greg said defensively, even though Grissom hadn't made any comment. "It's all those pies and cakes from Antigua. All the gourmet coffees -"

"And the donuts?" Grissom added helpfully.

"Ah, yes, the donuts," Greg said with more longing than regret, "I still haven't worked off those."

Gil shook his head in amusement.

"Vanity, thy name is Greg."

"Nah," Greg replied without missing a beat, "Vanity wouldn't choose such a lame name."

"Your name isn't lame," Gil protested, but Greg didn't reply. He was looking at the ceiling, seemingly lost in thoughts.

With Greg's gaze averted, Gil felt safe to sneak another glance at Greg's belly.

"Speaking of food," Greg said suddenly, "You know what I've missed?" He looked at Grissom and waited until he had his attention to add, "Your omelets."

"Omelets?"

"Yeah. You used to cook me an omelet now and then."

Gil smiled faintly. Ah, yes, he thought. The omelets. They used to be a part of his own post-coital routine; he would either cook an omelet, or squeeze the juice off a half a dozen oranges, or, if in a hurry, simply leave a bagful of fresh fruit.

At the time, Gil hadn't stopped to analyze why he kept leaving those little gifts of food; but his trip to Portland had given him ample time to think, and so, in a moment of quiet introspection he'd recognized those gifts for what they really were: humble offerings left for a god.

"You haven't cooked me anything since you came back from Portland," Greg added thoughtfully.

And the reason was simple, Gil thought; he'd decided to stop seeing Greg as a god.

But this wasn't something he could even begin to explain.

"I didn't realize," Gil said casually. "Did you like those?"

"Well, yeah," Greg said matter-of-factly. "Though I was kind of surprised that you would cook for me."

"Why?" Gil frowned, "Can't a guy cook for another?"

"Well, yeah, he can. It's just… I was afraid you might be putting more than eggs and cheese in them."

"Like what?" Gil asked in surprise.

"Hell, I don't know," Greg shrugged, "Red ants, for instance. Or crickets. So at first, I'd tear the omelets apart and scrutinize every bit. It's not that I haven't eaten insects in my lifetime," he added, "Back when I was living in New York, I used to eat at this dingy coffee shop where the peanut butter sandwiches were suspiciously crunchy. But I was too hungry to spit the food; hungry _and_ broke."

He was quiet for a moment, probably reminiscing on those times. "Who knows? Maybe cockroaches supplied me with the nutrition I needed."

"You were broke in New York?"

"Money was scarce," Greg said simply. "But back to the omelets… Make a note, will you? One: Get spider for Greg. Two: Get eggs and cheese for Greg's omelet -"

"I thought you were concerned about your weight," Gil teased.

Greg smiled.

"So? Make it without cheese."

Grissom smiled noncommittally. He had no intention of cooking anything for Greg ever again.

But there were other things he wasn't ready to give up yet.

He turned on his side and tentatively reached for Greg under the covers. He laid his hand on the young man's hip, his fingers gently digging into the soft flesh covering the pubic bone. Greg was right; he had put on some weight indeed.

"See?" Greg muttered as if he'd read Gil's thoughts. "That's fat."

"I like it," Gil countered.

Greg raised his eyebrows.

"You do?"

"You've been a little too thin at times," Gil said. "This feels good." And to show him that he meant what he said, he leant across and laid a kiss on Greg's belly.

It was an unexpected caress, and Greg stifled a nervous laugh.

"You're not gonna tickle me, right?"

Gil didn't answer. Tickling Greg was not a bad idea, but there were better things to do. He rubbed his face on the smooth skin, noticing how the muscles underneath tightened at first, then relaxed as Greg gave in to the sensations.

Grissom kissed every inch of Greg's belly though refraining from exploring any further. He was waiting for a word of encouragement from Greg.

Suddenly, a sign of approval came, though not in the way that Gil expected. Greg's erection poked him on the cheek.

Gil chuckled as he pulled back the covers.

"Well, well," he said huskily, "I haven't had sausage for breakfast in a long time."

Greg laughed out loud but the outburst was cut short at the first touch of Gil's tongue. He gasped.

"Oh, that's good -" he said breathlessly.

Gil threw him a glance, only to find that Greg was staring at him; he'd even raised himself on one arm to get a better view of Gil going down on him. This was a first; usually, they were too pressed for time to actually stop and look at each other while they made love.

Grissom felt his face burn.

Greg reached out for Grissom and buried his fingers in the curly hair.

"Go on," he said huskily, gently steering Gil's head down. Grissom didn't hesitate anymore; he set out to give his all to Greg.

Hearing Greg's groans was the best reward, and yet it wasn't enough; he also wanted to look at the young man -put a face to those breathy sighs. He couldn't very well turn to look, so he did the next best thing; he blindly reached out with his free hand until he found Greg's face and touched it like a blind man trying to memorize someone's features.

Now he was aware of Greg in ways he'd never experienced before, and he reveled in these new sensations. He was tasting him, feeling his every move. He felt Greg press his face into his open palm; he felt him breathe into it, and groan. He was also aware of Greg's hand still entangled in his hair, sometimes grabbing at it, sometimes simply holding it tightly.

And suddenly, Greg gasped and said a name- Gil.

----

After it was all over, Grissom laid his head on Greg's belly and closed his eyes. He felt Greg's body grow lax as the intensity of his orgasm ebbed away. Greg's breathing grew calmer, and he loosened the hold on Gil's hair, although he didn't remove his hand. It was as if he didn't want to let go of Gil yet.

Gil was ok with it; frankly, there was no other place he'd rather be.

He closed his eyes.

Maybe they'd finally get some sleep after all…

Or maybe not.

" 'issom?" Greg said. Actually, slurred would be a more appropriate term.

Gil raised his head, causing Greg's hand to slip and fall on the bed, where it lay limply. He was exhausted, yet he didn't seem ready to give in to sleep yet.

"'issom," he said again, and this time he motioned Gil to get closer with an almost imperceptible head movement.

Gil smiled. He crawled back to his former position on the bed, only this time he raised himself on one arm so he could look down at Greg..

"Hey," he said.

"Mmm," Greg nodded, his eyes having a little trouble focusing on Gil's face. "Mmmm," he sighed again.

Gil's smile widened. He'd never seen Greg like this. A sated Greg Sanders was a wonderful thing to see.

Gil longed to touch him but wisely held back. He felt too emotionally close to Greg right then, and he didn't trust himself not to do or say anything that he might regret later.

He was content with merely looking.

Greg opened his eyes again.

"Man, that was -" he stopped, seemingly at a loss for words. "Wow."

Grissom smiled.

"Wow?"

"That was -" again, Greg faltered.

"A ten?" Grissom offered hopefully.

"Hmmm," Greg mulled this over for a moment. "Nah. Not a ten. A nine."

"A nine?" Gil repeated indignantly. "All that effort and you're only giving me a nine?"

"Yep," Greg said, enjoying what had become a joke between them, "There's always room for improvement, Grissom." He smiled languidly for a moment, then frowned. He pulled back a little, as if to get a better view of Gil's face, "How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"_That_," he repeated, giving Gil's mouth a cross-eyed look, "I mean, it's not like you've got Mick Jagger lips-"

"Mick Jagger lips?" Gil repeated.

Greg touched Gil's bottom lip with his thumb.

"You took me whole," he said huskily, "How did you do it?"

Grissom didn't really know what to say. He shrugged in an 'aw-shucks' gesture.

"Well, I don't know," he said, then smiled mischievously. "I guess I've just got a lot of space in my cheeks."

Greg blinked, then snorted loudly.

"Oh, I get it," he said, "_Chipmunk_."

"Exactly."

Greg impulsively raised his head and kissed Gil on the mouth, then wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. When Greg finally ended the kiss, Grissom gave him a surprised look.

It was his turn to say "Wow."

Greg smiled and playfully rubbed Gil's cheek with his thumb.

All this was unexpected for Gil. It was one thing to be touched and kissed while in the throes of passion, and it was quite another to be touched and kissed just for the sake of it. And all of a sudden, there was something in Greg's eyes… Tenderness, yes; but also something else Gil couldn't readily ID.

And then Greg spoke.

"Chip -" he said huskily, and there was something so seductive in the way Greg said the silly nickname, and in the way he was looking at him, that Gil's heart began to beat faster.

He had the sudden feeling that whatever Greg said next would somehow change their lives.

But when Greg finally spoke, it was the last thing Gil expected to hear.

"Did John call you Chip, too?"

Grissom didn't move a muscle.

"He called me Grissom," he said expressionlessly.

"Huh," Greg said. He paused for a moment, thinking this over. He looked up at Gil again, "What about you? Did you call him Garrison or -"

"Greg -" Gil said, a warning implied.

"Ok, ok -" Greg said, backing off, "I'm not gonna ask anymore." He studied Gil's face for a moment. "Hey... You're not angry, right?" he frowned, "I mean… It was just a question."

Grissom started to roll away but Greg grabbed his shoulder to stop him.

"Wait," Greg said. He looked anxious, "Look, I'm sorry, ok? Tell you what," he added, forcing a smile, "You're right. Talking is overrated, anyway. I bet we can find something better to do instead -" and he let his fingers wander from Grissom's shoulder to his back. There was no mistaking his intentions; when he touched Gil's bottom, he gave it a little squeeze.

Grissom sighed, then shook his head.

"I'm too tired."

"Are you sure?" Greg replied, reaching down between their bodies, "'Cause I'm starting to feel something down there -"

It was true; Grissom's body was responding to Greg's touch -and Grissom despised himself for it. He knew what Greg was doing: trying to compensate for his blunder. It didn't do to piss off the boss, so now he was trying to make it up to him.

And the worst part was that it was working. He was stroking Gil's incipient erection expertly; he was doing everything right.

"Grissom?"

Gil looked down.

"What?" he asked.

Greg didn't immediately answer, and once again, Gil had the feeling that there was something important he wanted to say.

Greg gulped. He stopped stroking Grissom's erection. He even stopped breathing.

"What?" Gil said again.

"Grissom, I -" Greg's mouth moved but no words were forthcoming. He tried again. "I… I was thinking," he paused, then said in a rush, "Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?"

Grissom wondered if he'd heard right.

"I guess," he said slowly.

"Good," Greg said. He stroked Gil's erection a couple of times, then added, "My friends are coming over."

Gil frowned.

"Friends?"

"Yeah. We meet here about once a month. I thought maybe you'd like to meet them -"

Grissom vaguely heard as Greg talked about ordering a pizza and opening a bottle of wine, and about getting some of his gay friends to come over too. He wasn't really paying attention; he had no intention of meeting Greg's friends. He didn't know any of his coworkers' friends and he wasn't about to start.

"… They lead busy lives just like you and me," Greg was saying, "So we have that in common. We usually go see a movie after dinner -"

"Greg -"

"-but we could skip that and stay here -"

"Greg," Gil said, more firmly this time. When he was sure that he had Greg's attention, he shook his head, "I don't think I can make it."

"Oh, come on, Grissom. You're the boss. You can take a night off now and then -"

"I don't want to meet your friends," Gil said abruptly.

Greg raised his eyebrows.

"Oh," he hesitated. " Why?"

"I don't socialize with my coworkers," Gil said as if it were obvious.

Greg snorted in disbelief.

"What do you think this is, then?" he asked, glancing at their locked bodies.

Grissom stared at Greg. His lips parted but he didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say.

He slowly extricated himself from Greg's embrace, then swung his legs off the bed.

"Grissom?"

Grissom didn't turn. His face was hot. He probably looked like a kid who's been caught doing something utterly wrong. At least, that's how he felt.

All he wanted to do was to get out and fast, but he didn't. He took his time picking his clothes and putting them on. He winced as he tucked his slowly deflating erection in his boxers.

Behind him, Greg cleared his throat.

"Hum. Grissom?"

Gil glanced over his shoulder and noticed that Greg was sitting up now. He didn't see the young man's face, but the tone of his voice said it all: he was clearly puzzled by Gil's behavior.

"I thought you were going to sleep over," Greg said tentatively.

"No," Grissom said, then he cleared his throat. "No, I've got to go back to the lab."

"People gotta sleep sometime."

Grissom finished getting dressed, then looked at Greg.

"I've got to -" Gil started but didn't finish.

"Sure," Greg nodded.

Grissom picked up his car keys, but once he had them in his hand he hesitated. He wondered if there might be something he could tell Greg, some sort of explanation he could give him. Or maybe he didn't even have to talk; maybe all he had to do was drop the keys back on the dresser and sit on the bed and let Greg finish telling him his plans -

But he didn't do any of those things. In the end, he found that leaving was easier.

It always was.

* * *

TBC

Thank you for reviewing! I think the next chapters won't take me too long.

"


	27. Chapter 27

DECISIONS

First of all, thank you so much for your messages and reviews; they've been really encouraging.

I'd like you to know that I'm committed to finish the story; I don't know how soon I'm going to update again, but I'm working hard on the next chapters. Just a warning: there won't be much of Greg on the first two or so.

A while ago, I said there'd be a slash version of Butterflied -here it is (the first chapter at least). Once again, I'm getting myself in trouble by including a crime scene.

* * *

Grissom nodded at the young cop standing at the foot of the stairs.

"Fifth floor, Mr. Grissom," the cop said cryptically, allowing him to pass.

The building was old, Gil noticed as he climbed the stairs; old and dirty, and poorly kept. From the walls to the hand railings, every surface was covered by suspicious stains and the outlines of a thousand hands. Elderly people's hands, probably, by the looks of the tenants he'd seen downstairs.

He found Brass on the fourth floor. The detective was nodding at an old lady who was talking volubly while keeping a wary eye on him. She was holding on to her door as if afraid that Brass would suddenly barge into her home.

Brass cut short the interview as soon as he saw Grissom.

"I'll see what I can do, ma'am," he said kindly, then waited until the door was closed before coming to Gil's encounter. "Landlord's a scumbag," Brass said, tilting his head in the direction of the old lady's door. "Hasn't been taking care of the building." He looked appraisingly at Grissom, "This is a surprise. Since when do you work days?"

"I should be asking you the same question," Grissom replied, putting his kit on the floor. "I heard the Sara was working alone and came to help," he added.

"Oh. I thought you were making up for the fact that you took off earlier last night," Brass said casually, and then he smiled mischievously. "What happened? You got a booty call, or something?"

Grissom didn't smile back; he merely snapped on his latex gloves.

"Where's Sara?" he asked.

"Upstairs," Brass said all business again, "It's the only apartment. We have two DBs; a man and a woman, both bludgeoned to death. The coroner came late –no surprises there- so he hasn't removed the bodies yet."

"Witnesses?"

"None, so far. Most of the tenants are old and deaf. They didn't see anything, didn't hear anything. Not tonight, that is. According to them, the tenant upstairs was always 'making a racket.'"

"A racket? That can mean anything," Gil retorted morosely, "A radio turned on too loud, drunken visitors -"

"I'll see if I can find someone who narrows it down for you," Brass said with gentle irony.

----  
The apartment in question was little more than a glorified attic.

The door was open but Grissom didn't immediately step inside; he looked around first. Sara wasn't in the room, but by the sounds coming from a darkened hallway, it was obvious that she was taking a look at the rest of the place.

In a corner, David was wrapping one of the bodies.

Grissom studied what must have served as a living room/dining room/kitchen. It was pretty much bare now, but by the outlines along the walls and the faint skid marks on the worn-out carpet, it was obvious that it had been furnished until recently.

What drew his attention next was the blood. There was a large pool in the middle in the room, probably where a body had come to rest.

Grissom stepped into the room just as Sara was coming down the hallway. She looked up sharply, then relaxed when she recognized him.

"Hey," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"They told me you were working solo. I thought I'd come and give you a hand."

"Thanks," she smiled.

"Brass filled me in," Grissom said. "Two bodies, a male and a female -"

"That's right." Sara said, motioning him to come in, "They were lying together; one on top of the other -"

Grissom turned his Maglite here and there as Sara did a preliminary reconstruction of the crime. Apparently, both victims had been sleeping in the other room when something compelled them to get up.

"Either their attacker knocked on the door, or he tried to break in and they surprised him. Either way, the woman was standing about here when she was struck down first," Sara said, pointing at the mid-speed spatter easily discernible on the door.

"They used a blunt object," Grissom muttered as he examined the droplets.

"She fell right here," Sara added, pointing her Maglite to the floor, where a trail of bloody smudges told the rest of the story. The woman was still conscious when she fell; she crawled away from the door and her assailant, but her progress was abruptly stopped by a renewed attack from her assailant. There was blood spatter on the ceiling and the walls, proof that she'd been struck down repeatedly.

"She did put up a fight at first," Sara said in a subdued tone, "Her arms were broken as she tried to ward off he blows. That's mostly her blood," she added, looking at the large pool of blood by their feet.

Grissom looked up after a moment.

"What about the man?"

"No defensive wounds," Sara said. "And as far as David could tell, he was struck twice."

"Twice?" Gil asked with interest.

"Two blows to the back of the skull," Sara said. "According to the position he was in, he was probably bent down, examining the woman, when he was struck. He didn't see it coming."

Grissom glanced around; "So, the killer finished off the woman and then… What? Did he leave and come back later…? Or did he hide in here and waited for his next victim to wake up…?"

"I kind of doubt it," Sara said, "There's really no place to hide. Unless the place was too dark to see clearly -"

"Or maybe he recognized their visitor and didn't immediately connect him to the crime," Grissom said thoughtfully, "Or he could have been attacked elsewhere and positioned afterwards -" he paused. He was speculating too much, and he knew it.

He turned his attention to the bodies.

David had finished preparing the woman's body for transportation but had left the man's bag open for Grissom. As the CSI crouched down to examine the body, Sara spoke.

"Paul Foster. 22, according to his ID."

Grissom was momentarily taken aback; he knew better than to make assumptions about a victim but after seeing the old people downstairs, he thought this man would be old as well.

Gil gave a cursory glance to the man's clothing and then he tilted his head to take a closer look at the face. Death hadn't distorted his features yet. The man's full lips held the hint of a smile, while the half-open eyes seemed to be staring straight at him under bushy eyebrows.

Grissom shook his head almost imperceptibly. He was adamant about not letting his feelings get a hold of him under any circumstances, but sometimes he couldn't help feeling regret. Here was a handsome man, a seemingly healthy man who looked younger than he was, even in death. A man who –

_A man who looked very much like Greg._

Gil flinched at the sudden realization.

The man's individual features didn't tell him much; it was only when he took in the man's face in its entirety that he noticed the resemblance. Now it seemed so obvious, that he was surprised that Sara hadn't cared to mention it.

Gil glanced over his shoulder to make a comment but caught himself just in time. After all, neither Sara nor David had ever seen Greg's face on repose. What was obvious to him might not be to the rest of the team.

Grissom looked back at the dead man.

He took a deep breath.

This was not good.

He'd come to this crime scene to get Greg off his mind, not to be reminded of him.

He'd parted from Greg in less than friendly terms only a few hours before. He'd driven home immediately after, and then he'd followed a routine that usually helped him put every stressful thought behind: clean up his pets' cages until he was too tired to continue; take a shower; take a cup of tea; do some meditation; get some sleep…

But after the two first tasks, he knew he would not be getting any rest. Going to bed would only remind him of Greg in the first place, and sitting around in his empty house would not help much either. Going back to work was his best option. It made sense, too, considering he'd left earlier the night before.

Besides, the lab was the one place where his personal issues always took a back seat.

Helping Sara in a case that should have been handled by the day shift was like a God-send at first; now, as he stared at Greg look-alike, Gil started to have his doubts.

He was still staring at the dead man when Brass entered the apartment. Gil vaguely listened as Brass explained that Paul Foster was moving at the end of the week.

"According to the Super, Foster's lady friend was spending a lot of time here but had digs elsewhere. He says Foster didn't have any special visitors but I wouldn't put too much faith in his recollections. The guy doesn't know what's going on in his building -that's a fact.

"As for the neighbors, they didn't like Foster much. He was young; they seemed to resent that."

"What was he doing in a place like this, anyway?" Sara asked.

"My guess? It was cheap. Oh, and Gil, about the racket, I narrowed it down to 'he was noisy'," Brass said ironically.

Grissom didn't raise his gaze.

"'Noisy' doesn't tell us much," he said unnecessarily. "Was he in a fight? Was he abusive?"

"I guess we can rule out fistfights," Sara said, "I didn't see any bruising on his hands; his face was unmarked -"

"There's a bruise on his chin," David countered. "I noticed it when I was about to close the bag."

Grissom and Sara crouched down to examine the man's jaw.

"What do you think that is?" Grissom asked, pointing at a reddish spot on the man's jaw. He glanced at Sara, A love bite?"

"Could be," Sara said cautiously. She delicately patted the bruise. "It feels rough. Like a callous."

Grissom frowned.

"Wait," he said, seized by a sudden idea. He picked the dead man's hand and examined it closely, "Check this out," he said. Sara took a couple of close-up pictures of the man's fingers, then lightly touched them. The pads of his fingers were slightly flattened and hardened. She frowned.

"Calluses," she frowned. She examined the palm. "But his skin feels soft, like he never did any hard labor -"

Grissom smiled faintly.

"Jim? I think I know what the racket was," he said. He glanced at Brass, "The guy was a musician. See this?" he added, pointing at the reddish spot on the man's jaw, "That's called a violinist's hickey," he explained, "It's caused by the rub of the violin against his chin," he added, mimicking the posture of a musician holding a violin.

"That would explain the flattened pads," Sara nodded. She glanced around. "I didn't see any musical instrument in here."

"Maybe this is a robbery gone wrong," Brass said.

Grissom got up and turned his attention to the blood spatter on the walls and the ceiling.

"There's too much passion involved," he muttered. "Considering he only got a couple of blows, it doesn't even seem he was the primary object of the attack. What do we know about the woman? Was she a violinist, too?"

Grissom glanced at Sara, but David answered first.

"I didn't see any hickeys," he said. "Not on her jaw, at least," he added, coloring a little.

"Her name is Ann Beaton," Sara said, answering Gil's first question, "From Pennsylvania." She glanced around, "You know, the violin could be in one of the boxes in the bedroom. He was moving out, after all."

Grissom glanced at Paul Foster one last time before David closed the body bag.

"Do you want to ride back with them?" Sara asked.

"I'll take the room," he said.

"Are you sure?" Sara asked in surprise. She'd obviously expected Grissom to stick to the bodies. It wasn't every day that the boss chose to stay on the sidelines.

"I'm sure," Grissom said, picking another set of latex gloves from a pocket. Processing the room would keep his mind occupied with purely technical work –which was all he could handle at the moment.

Besides, attending Greg's look-alike's autopsy was the last thing he wanted to do.

* * *

TBC

Happy Holidays!


	28. Chapter 28

DECISIONS.

Well, here I go again.

* * *

Grissom entered Foster's bedroom. It was poorly lighted, and so small, that the few pieces of shabby furniture -a chest of drawers, a couple of chairs, and, in the farthest corner, a mattress on the floor- seemed to overcrowd it.

There were clothes laying on one of the chairs, presumably the clothes the couple had worn the day before, and Grissom focused on them first. He bagged the woman's clothes after only a brief inspection, but he hesitated before picking up the man's. He knew, even before he looked at the labels, that they were Greg's size.

Not that Greg would ever wear such conventional clothes, Gil thought. Well, except for trials. Maybe. Grissom started to smile at the memory of some of the supposedly conservative outfits Greg had worn in the past, but he quickly checked himself. He didn't have time for this, he though impatiently; he had a lot to do. He bagged the rest of the clothes and then set out to work on the rest of the room.

He worked quietly and methodically for almost an hour, his mind entirely focused on the search for evidence. He didn't think of the victims themselves until he noticed the medicine bottles on the chest of drawers. He picked one and winced when he read the label. He picked another and then he shook his head gloomily.

He was thinking of Ann Beaton when his cell phone rang.

"Grissom."

"Hey, Gil," Brass said, "You still in Foster's apartment?" He didn't wait for a reply. "I'm back in the building. Listen, there's a couple of kids here you might want to take a look at. Cop in charge says they were acting in a suspicious manner, so he detained them for me. Guess what? They say they're friends of the Foster guy."

"So, take them to the precinct," Gil replied impatiently. "Call Sara. She's the lead on the case."

"Sara's not on the clock right now. It's you and me, pal," Brass added cordially, and then he hung up.

He was taking it for granted that Grissom would come.

Gil sighed. He didn't want to get involved in other aspects of the case, but couldn't very well refuse. With some regret, he bagged and tagged the bottles, and then he walked to the door.

--.

He found them in the building's tiny parlor.

Brass was standing near the only window, looming over a couple of kids, a boy and a girl, and obviously doing his 'tough cop' routine. It seemed to be working; the kids were clearly intimidated, sitting close together in a corner of the only couch.

On a first sight, they almost looked like twins; both were lanky, pale, and blond. They wore shiny rubber pants and tight tops, so similar they practically looked like a uniform. Even their piercings seemed to mirror each other's; tiny diamonds and golden stubs adorned their ears and nostrils in the same places.

Having just examined Foster's conservative clothes, Grissom found the contrast interesting.

Brass motioned him to come in.

"These are Marissa Crowley and Dean Curtis -"  
"Second violin," they added automatically, as if the title had become part of their names.  
"- friends of the deceased," Brass finished.  
Gil introduced himself. Now that he was close, he noticed the girl's red-rimmed eyes, and the balled-up handkerchief in her hand. The guy, by contrast, seemed more sullen than sad. They looked like they'd been partying all night. Their clothes reeked of cigarette smoke.

Since they'd mentioned being Violinists, Gil covertly looked for the tell-tale bruises on their jaws, but he didn't see any. But then, not all violinists had them.

"So, you're musicians," Gil said.

"We're members of Professor Burroughs's Orchestra," the girl said.  
Grissom perked up.  
"Burroughs?" he repeated, "You mean James Burroughs?"  
"Yes," Marissa smiled tentatively, "You've heard of us?"  
"I've heard of Professor Burroughs," Grissom said noncommittally. He glanced at Brass, "He conducted the Blakely Orchestra back in the eighties," he explained, to which Brass muttered an uninterested 'oh.'

Marissa's smile deepened.  
"The professor will be glad to know that a detective's heard of him," she said.  
"I'm not a detective," Grissom said gently. "I thought Professor Burroughs had retired from conducting."  
"He did," she said, "He founded his own school. A couple of years ago he put together an orchestra with his best pupils. We've toured Australia and Europe." She glanced at Curtis, "We did well in Spain and Italy, didn't we?" She was trying to draw him into the conversation but he refused to look at her. She looked at Gil again. "We spent six months in Canada. Small audiences, mostly, but it got us a contract in Vegas -"

But Brass wasn't interested in the orchestra's story.

"So, Dean," he said, looking at the young man, "Let's go over your statement again." He glanced at his notes, "You said you hadn't seen Paul in a long time and had no idea he was dead." He looked at Curtis, "So, what you're saying is, you were hovering outside simply because you 'liked this neighborhood…?'"

"We weren't hovering -" Marissa protested.

"And we didn't kill him," Curtis added morosely. He looked at Brass, "That's what you want to know, right? Here," he said, and he thrust his left arm in Brass' direction, "You can take my DNA if you want."

Grissom smiled at this.  
"Would you volunteer a sample?"  
"Sure," Dean replied, "I've got nothing to hide. And neither does she," he added, tilting his head in Marissa's direction.  
"We don't need your blood, Mr. Curtis," Grissom said, taking a Q-tip from a pocket. "An oral sample will do. I'll also need to swab your hands," he added.

Gil took note of the kids' overall appearance. The scruffy clothes made it difficult for him to tell whether they'd been in a fight or not, but their hands didn't show any trace of blood. It seemed they had nothing to hide, indeed.

But they weren't as forthcoming when it came to talking about Paul.

"He was our First Violin," Dean said, as if that was all there was to know about their friend.  
Brass looked at one and then at the other.  
"That's it?" Brass replied. He leant forward, invading Dean's personal space, "You know, you don't strike me as particularly sad at the news that your friend was murdered."

Dean snorted.

"You want me to cry?" he asked sarcastically, but the tone didn't ring true somehow.

Brass looked at Marissa, then.

She held his gaze for as long as she could, but she eventually gave up. She glanced at Dean, but he didn't acknowledge her. She looked at Brass again.

"Look," she said, "We _are_ sorry for Paul. It's just… We're exhausted. We stayed up all night, working -"

"Working?" Brass said skeptically, "I'm sorry, but you don't look like you've been playing for an orchestra."

"That's because we haven't," Marissa replied, "We've been working the nightshift at the Vegas Rock Club for three days now." She leant back and closed her eyes. "Thank God we still know our way around an electric guitar," she added, almost to herself.

"You were laid off?"

She didn't immediately reply. She took a deep breath, and then she opened her eyes.  
"Not exactly," she said hesitantly. "Professor Burroughs stopped rehearsals. We still have our jobs," she added, "But we're not getting any money, so -"

"Why did he stop rehearsals?" Gil asked.  
"Paulie quit the orchestra a week ago," she said slowly, "We couldn't go on without him."  
Brass was surprised. "You mean your boss canceled the concerts just because one member was missing? How come?"  
Marissa glanced at Dean, and then she looked back at Brass.  
"You'll have to ask Professor Burroughs," she said evasively.  
Grissom intervened.

"When did he quit?"

"Hum, about a week ago -"  
"Do you know why he quit?"  
"Ann got him a contract -" Marissa said reluctantly.  
"Ann Beaton?"  
"Yeah. The _girlfriend_," Dean said sardonically. "She had connections, so she used them. Got him a contract to work in Europe."

"I guess she got tired of being a penniless violinist's groupie," Marissa added softly.

"Groupie?" Grissom asked, slightly amused at hearing that word in connection to a classical orchestra.  
Marissa smiled back.  
"Rock bands aren't the only ones who get them," she said, "We have our followers, too. But we don't have any money to spare, so only a handful stick around. Ann followed him all the way from _Canada_. She was in love," she mused, "And so was he."

Dean snorted noisily.  
"He was in love with her money," he said.  
"Was he?" Brass asked, the skeptical tone designed to cast doubts on Dean's statement –thus forcing him to explain himself.

And it worked.

"Yeah," Dean said animatedly, "Paul didn't care about his craft; he wanted money –big money." When neither Jim nor Gil made any comment, he continued, "We're doing ok with the orchestra," he said, "But we only get minimum wages most of the time. We don't mind," he said, glancing at Marissa, "But Paul wasn't satisfied."

"He felt he was too old to keep playing the 'young prodigy' part," Marissa said quietly.

"Working for prestige wasn't in his heart," Dean continued. "He said he didn't want to end up like the professor. I mean, Professor Burroughs is famous but he isn't rich and he's never gonna be."

"Unless the hip hop community suddenly starts sampling classical music," Marissa said ironically.  
"The professor would ever sell the rights to his sonatas," Dean retorted, seemingly proud of that fact.  
Grissom ventured a question.  
"Couldn't the rich girlfriend have used her connections to help the orchestra itself?"  
"Oh, no," Marissa said, "She wanted Paul _out_."  
"Why?"  
"Well, because -" Marissa started, and then seemed to catch herself. She glanced at Dean, and then back at Grissom. "I guess you'll have to ask her," she said evasively.

"We'd love to," Brass said, smiling, "But you see, she was killed last night, too."  
Marissa looked up sharply. She turned to Dean, but he didn't look at her. He seemed just as shocked.

She looked at Brass again.

"That's awful," she said, as if Brass were to blame for the news.  
Dean was looking alarmed for the first time.  
"Hey, look. The cop downstairs didn't tell us anything about her. He just said someone killed Paul. I thought -"

"Yes?" Brass prompted.

"I just thought -I mean, look at this dump," he said, glancing around. "I bet they kill someone here every week. I just thought this was just, you know -" he didn't seem to find the right word.

"A random killing?" Brass asked. "But you think Ann Beaton's death changes all that." He wasn't asking a question.

"I don't think anything," Dean said. He looked at Brass, and then at Grissom. "We hardly knew Ann. Or Paul, for that matter."

"You were his _colleagues_," Brass insisted.  
"Just because we played in the same orchestra doesn't mean we knew him. He was First Violin –he kept to himself."  
"And yet you came looking for him."  
"I wanted to talk to him," Curtis said. He realized what he'd just said, but it was too late to back off, and he knew it. "Ok, look; I came here because I wanted to ask him to reconsider. He owed a lot to the Professor; it was about time someone reminded him of that. But I never got to see him. The cops were already here when we came. Besides, what about Ann?" he asked eagerly. "She was loaded; maybe someone wanted to rob her -"

Grissom was looking at Marissa. She was still shaken by the news.  
"Marissa?" he said, "Is there something you want to tell us?"  
"It's just… You see, she was…" she gulped, "She was…" she didn't finish, but when she moved her arms protectively around her belly, Grissom nodded.

"She was pregnant," he said gently.  
"Yes." Marissa looked at him in surprise.  
Dean looked sharply at her.  
"You didn't tell me anything!"  
Brass eyed him with interest.  
"Would that have made any difference?" He asked with deceptive gentleness. "Is a pregnant woman any harder to kill, you think?"

Dean was about to answer, but Marissa intervened.  
"Hold on!" she said, "Look, we didn't do anything. We don't know who killed them but it wasn't us. All right?" She seemed truly scared, now. "When was he killed?" she asked, looking at Brass and then at Grissom. "We were at the Club all day yesterday; we rehearsed from ten in the morning to six in the afternoon; then we pulled off the night shift. We were there the entire time. Ask the owner, if you want. He didn't let us out of his sight until six in the morning."

Grissom frowned.  
"There's something I don't understand. Why did you wait a whole week before you came to talk to him?"  
"Because we didn't think he was serious," Dean said reluctantly, "It wasn't the first time Paul quit the orchestra," he explained. "He'd quit and then return a couple of days later. He only did it to infuriate the Professor."

Marissa smiled faintly.

"He would take the most outrageous jobs -" her voice trailed off.

"Only this time it was serious," Brass added.  
"He wanted to work on movie soundtracks," Dean said scornfully. "It wasn't what the professor wanted for him. He'd trained Paul to be a classical musician. He was concerned -"

"Concerned is an understatement," Marissa blurted out, "They had a fight in his office -"  
"Marissa -" Dean interrupted. The unspoken warning worked. Marissa flushed and didn't finish what she was going to say.  
Brass looked at one and then at the other, "Where can we find this professor Burroughs?" he asked.  
--

Gil left before the interrogation was over. He returned to Foster's bedroom and worked nonstop until almost noon, when Brass dropped by.

"I'm going to see Professor Burroughs now. Want to come along?"  
"You've got to take Sara," Gil said firmly, "She's the -"  
"She called," Brass interrupted. "She's looking into Ann Beaton's life. I hope she can explain to me why Ann Beaton visited Foster here, when he could have gone to _her_ hotel just as easily. Come on," he added cheerfully. "You'll get to meet a famous conductor. Besides, I need someone who knows a little about classical music. Otherwise I'm gonna look like a rube."  
"I'm beat," Gil said, but it was a half-hearted plea. He knew he was running out of excuses not to work with Brass. Ever since that conversation they'd had about Greg, Gil had been avoiding Brass as much as he could. It was an uncomfortable situation. It was unprofessional too.

"Let me wrap up here," he said resignedly.

"So," Brass said later, as they walked to their cars. "What do you think of Curtis and Crowley?"

Gil was noncommittal.

"I'll see if their fingerprints match the ones I found in Foster's apartment."

"No; what I mean is, what does your gut tell you?"

"I'm a CSI, Jim," Gil said austerely, "I don't listen to my gut."

"Boy, you're cranky when you're tired," Brass said dryly. "Anyway, there are one or two points I found interesting. Like, for instance, how did you know Ann Beaton was pregnant?"  
"I found some prescription drugs in Foster's room," Gil explained, "Her name was on the bottles. And Marissa's reaction was very telling."

"Drugs?" Brass perked up, "What kind of drugs?"

"Harmless medication," Gil said, "She was having trouble sleeping."

Brass was silent for a moment.

"Do you really believe she would trust Marissa with her little secret?" he asked when they reached their cars. "I got the impression that neither one of them liked Ann Beaton that much."

"I think she would have trusted Marissa," Gil said thoughtfully, "Especially if she was the only female her own age she could talk to."

Gil opened the trunk and started putting the evidence collected inside.

"So," Brass said, "What can you tell me about Professor Burroughs?"

"Not much," Gil said, then he casually mentioned the Professor's age, (63) the names of some of the orchestras he'd directed in the past, and the names of two of his overtures.

"Now you're just showing off," Brass said good-humoredly. "How come you know so much about this guy?"

"I've seen a few of his concerts on the Classic Arts Showcase Channel. Burroughs was successful," Gil conceded, "But he wasn't Zubin Metha." He said it as if that was enough of an explanation, but Brass's questioning look told him it wasn't, so he added, "Technically, he was very good; but as a conductor he lacked something. He lacked -" and he frowned as he tried to find the right word.

"Passion?" Brass supplied.

Gil raised his eyebrows in surprise. It wasn't a word he would have used but curiously, it was the right one.

"Yes," he said simply.

* * *

tbc


	29. Chapter 29

Decisions

* * *

Brass knocked on the door and then stepped back. Idly, he glanced up and down the poorly-lighted hallway.

"Shabby place," he said.

Gil nodded. "It seems the kids were telling the truth," he said. "The professor wasn't rich."

The door opened then. A tall, handsome woman stood there, looking questioningly at them.

"Yes?"

Brass stated their names and occupations but before he had a chance to explain what they'd come for, she motioned them inside.

"I am Amanda Burroughs, detectives," she said in a gentle, well-modulated voice, "Professor Burroughs is my brother. He's in the living room." She led them down a gloomy hallway and only paused to add, in a whisper, "Please, be brief. He isn't feeling well."

Grissom frowned. She acted as if she and her brother got visits from the police all the time.

"Ms. Burroughs," he said, "I'm afraid we've got some news -"

"Yes, I know," she interrupted, "Marissa called. She said -" she faltered. She pressed her lips together, and this simple act helped her get a hold of herself. She nodded, "She told us."

"Did she," Brass said tightly. He looked like he would have loved to have Marissa right then and there so he could tell her a thing or two about disobeying police's instructions. He'd obviously hoped to be the one to spring the news on the Professor, and now the element of surprise was lost.

Grissom understood Brass' position but privately, he was glad that Marissa had made that call. She would at least know how to soften the blow.

As it was, the professor seemed devastated.

He was standing behind one of the chairs, holding on to it and looking as if he would collapse if he let go of it.

Amanda Burroughs made the introductions, but the Professor answered only vaguely, his mouth moving several times before he could express a single word of greeting. His eyes, watery and red-rimmed remained fixed on a spot on the floor.

After a pause, she gently took him by the arm and led him to a couch. Amanda Burroughs was younger than her brother but she seemed to exercise a quiet authority over him. She made sure Burroughs was comfortable, and then she sat on a nearby chair.

She motioned Gil and Brass to do the same.

"I can answer any question you might have about Paul, Detectives," she said, "I'm the company's Director."

Brass sat and took a notebook from a pocket.

"What can you tell me about Paul Foster, Ms. Burroughs? How long was he in the orchestra?"

"He was fifteen when my brother discovered him," she said. "He was studying music -in Ohio, of all places."

Grissom didn't take any notes. He didn't even sit. He listened to Paul Foster's story as told by Ms. Burroughs, but it was the professor he watched all along. He noticed the whitish crusts in the corners of the old man's mouth, the ragged breathing, the slight tremors that affected his hands -which explained why he insisted on keeping them clasped around something -first the chair, and now his knees. He was wearing several layers of clothing, which only added to the air of sickness surrounding him.

"- no close relatives that we know of," Ms. Burroughs said to another question. "His mother died two years ago -"

Soon, Grissom's attention wandered, and he openly looked around. Everything in the room was threadbare and shabby, from the rugs to the mismatched pieces of furniture, but someone had tried to give it a home-like feel by adding a few personal objects: An umbrella stand with the initials JB carved in wood stood right next to the door; a dozen or so pictures in silver frames adorned the mantle piece atop the fake fireplace; and posters, lots of posters hung on the walls.

These drew Gil's attention next.

James Burroughs appeared on each of the posters, his pose virtually the same in all of them: A baton held in a dramatic gesture, a blurred orchestra behind him. The posters were a graphic documentation of the Professor's career through the years. In all, he'd conducted five orchestras, each one of them less prestigious than the last. Apparently, the Professor had gone through a steady decline before he retired -which made one wonder why he'd want to go back.

Monetary problems?

He glanced at Burroughs. The old man seemed oblivious to the conversation his sister was holding with Brass. He looked older than 63, Gil thought. Fragile.

After a moment, Gil turned his attention to the framed pictures on the mantel. The beautiful silver frames looked out of place set against a cracked mirror.

If the posters were a testimony to Burroughs' career, the pictures were Paul's. He was in all of them, mostly by himself. There were group shots, but eve those seemed to have been taken only because he was there.

Grissom looked at one of the head shots and discovered that alive, Foster didn't look anything like Greg. He rarely smiled and when he did, the smile was too uncertain; joyless, almost. He only seemed to come alive when he was holding a violin and a bow in his hands -and even then the look on his face lacked warmth.

Arrogance seemed to be all he could show.

Gil glanced away. He was about to turn away altogether, but an incongruity made him look back. The pictures had been arranged in a neat row against the mirror, but one of the pictures was slightly out of place, as if someone had picked it up and put it back hastily. It ruined the intended symmetry.

Acting on an impulse, Grissom reached out and gently pushed the picture back into place, only to discover yet another incongruity. He'd expected the metal frame to be cold; instead, it was warm, as if somebody had been holding the picture only a moment before.

Grissom looked in the mirror. Behind him, the Burroughs were talking to Brass in hushed tones.

One of them had been holding this frame just before they came in, long enough to warm up the frame.

Amanda Burroughs looked up and noticed Gil's gaze on her.

She smiled. "Are you a fan, Mr. Grissom?"

Grissom turned.

"I am," Gil said cordially. "I like classical music." He returned to the group. He sat opposite the Professor, "I've seen some of your concerts on the Classic Arts Channel, sir."

"Ah, yes," Amanda Burroughs said. "They've done a great job preserving those old tapes." She glanced at her brother. "They've already requested a copy of our last concert in Canada, James." To Gil, she explained, "A friend of the orchestra toured with us and filmed the rehearsals and some of the concerts."

Gil perked up.

"Would you lend us a copy of that film?" he asked, "Backstage takes could be useful."

"Useful?"

"According to Marissa Crowley, Ann Beaton traveled with the orchestra," Gil said, "There might be something in the tapes that might give us a clue about her. Or about Paul."

Amanda Burroughs' smile lost its warmth.

"Surely, you're not implying the tour had something to do with Paul's death -"

"No," Gil said calmly. "But I'd like to have a sense of who Paul Foster was. We rarely get a chance to see what a person was like before tragedy strikes."

"You say it as if he somehow brought this on himself -"

Brass intervened.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry," he said, "But that is the case most of the times." He kept his gaze on her until she squirmed. She glanced at her brother, then at Brass.

"I'm not sure I can give the tape to you," she said tentatively.

"If it's your property -"

To Gil's surprise, Burroughs broke the silence. He seemed angry.

"That film belongs to me. I won't… allow… It is… it…"

But the effort to speak cost him; he started to cough. There was a carafe of water and a couple of glasses nearby, and Amanda made a move towards then but Grissom beat her to it. He poured some water for the professor. Burroughs' hand was shaking so badly that Gil was tempted to hold the glass for him, but the older man insisted on taking the glass. He drank big gulps of water, and then handed the glass back. He took a couple of deep breaths.

"Ma'am?" Brass said. "The film?"

She seemed torn between tending to her brother and doing the right thing.

"I'd have to ask our friend," she hesitated, "He doesn't even live in the US. I'd have to call him -"

"Please, do," Brass said cordially. "Tell him the film will be secure with us."

Reluctantly, she rose and left the room.

They were silent for a moment. Once again, the professor broke the silence.

"She had unsavory friends," he said.

"You mean, Ann Beaton?" asked Brass.

"I tried to warn Paul. But -"

"- but he was in love."

Burroughs fixed a cold stare on Brass.

"She seduced him with –with offers of money." He glanced away. "But I knew."

"You knew -"

"I knew he'd be back with us."

Gil eyed him with compassion.

"He'd agreed to travel to France, Professor."

Burroughs didn't immediately reply. He seemed lost in thoughts.

"Professor -"

"All she could offer him was money;" Burroughs said angrily. He looked at Brass in the eye. "Paul Foster was a genius," he said, answering the question Brass had posed a while ago. He licked his lips to add. "That's who he was."

--

"What do you think of the Burroughs?" Brass asked as he and Gil left the hotel.

Gil shrugged noncommittally.

"It seems they have trouble letting go of their property."

"You mean these?" Brass asked, lifting the box that Amanda Burroughs had handed to him. "He didn't want me to have them; she on the other hand, seemed only too glad to give them to me in the end."

"For which you should be thankful."

"Oh, I don't know," Brass said thoughtfully. "I had the impression she only gave them to me because she couldn't wait to get rid of us."

Gil shook his head.

"There's no pleasing you."

Brass glanced at Gil.

"What do you think of the Professor? He seems almost too frail to be conducting, doesn't he?"

"He's grieving," Gil shrugged.

"He was quick to put the blame on the girl."

"H'm."

Brass glanced at Grissom.

"You're not very interested in this case, are you?"

"I'm exhausted," Gil said morosely. He lifted the bags in his hands, "All I want to do now is take this to Trace, and check on my messages. Then, I'm going home."

Grissom finished his first task relatively quickly, but when he went to his office, he realized the rest would have to wait. There was someone waiting for him there.

Greg.

--

TBC


	30. Chapter 30

Decisions

Thank you so much for sticking around.

* * *

Grissom didn't immediately warn Greg of his presence. Instead, he watched as the young man leant over the desk, his neck craned at an odd angle as if he were trying to look at something without actually having to pick it up.

Gil couldn't imagine what it was that had caught Greg's interest, but if he didn't feel comfortable openly looking at it, then he probably shouldn't.

"Greg?"

He didn't exactly expect Greg to jump away from the desk, but he thought Greg would at least show some guilty at getting caught nosing around his private papers. Instead, the young man merely glanced over his shoulder.

"Hey, Grissom," he said amiably. He tilted his head in the desk's direction. "I was looking at you dead guy's picture."

Gil walked around his desk and looked. There, among piles of unread case reports and unopened pieces of mail, lay a brown file from the Coroner's office, a dead man's picture pasted on top. Paul Foster. Doc Robbins had obviously assumed Gil was the lead investigator in the case and brought him the results from the autopsy.

Greg was looking at it again.

"Is it just my imagination or does this guy really look like me? It's hard to tell with the picture upside down -" And this time he actually picked the file. He was about to turn it around to take a closer look, when Grissom simply seized the file and put it back on the desk.

Greg stood empty-handed, a look of surprise on his face. Then he smirked.

"Top secret case?"

"You're supposed to be on vacation," Gil replied, "Technically, you shouldn't even be here."

"Yeah, well." Greg shrugged. "According to the schedule you shouldn't be here, either. And yet, here you are." He smiled smugly, "My hunch paid off."

Grissom didn't smile back. Instead, he got busy; he took off his jacket and hung it behind a bookcase, and then he came back to the desk, where a pile of written messages drew his attention next.

All along, he was aware of Greg's presence; he could tell the young man was following his every move, and this only added to his growing discomfort.

There was something slightly disturbing about the young man's attitude; it seemed too casual;. He should have apologized for looking at the papers on his desk; he should have explained what he was there for. Instead, he seemed oddly defiant.

Still looking at the messages, Grissom pulled his chair and sat. He usually took one of his visitor's chairs when he had a casual meeting; this time he deliberately chose the chair behind the desk. He was there as the boss and he hoped that Greg would get the message.

He did.

By the time Grissom looked up, Greg's smug smile had faded, and he was looking uncertainly at Grissom. Grissom merely stared back, and for a moment, it looked like they would stay like this for hours, with Grissom waiting for Greg to explain his presence there, and Greg acting as if Grissom should be the one giving the explanations.

But Greg was no match for Grissom when it came to keeping lengthy silences; he just had to say something.

"Do you mind?" And he tentatively reached for one of the visitor's chairs.

One of Gil's eyebrows rose in surprise. This was probably the first time Greg had bothered to ask. For years, he'd simply come in and plopped into a chair –all without a single invitation. His gesture only added to the awkwardness of the moment.

"Go ahead," Gil said mechanically.

Greg didn't just sat; he made himself comfortable, which took him an inordinately amount of time and effort. He was obviously stalling -and for once, Grissom didn't prompt him to hurry up. By now, he'd begun to realize that this wasn't going to be a casual conversation -not after the way they'd parted that morning.

He'd successfully kept the events of the morning at the back of his mind; but now, as they started coming back to him, he saw how badly he'd handled the entire situation. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Greg was probably right; he was entitled to an explanation.

Greg looked up at last. He smiled.

"You're wondering what I'm doing here, right?" The smile held for a moment, then faded. "I just thought maybe we should talk."

Grissom's heart sank. He didn't have much experience when it came to relationships, but even he knew what 'maybe we should talk' meant.

He looked at Greg; the young man looked appropriately gloomy now; clearly, this was not a conversation he relished having. He couldn't even look at Grissom in the eye.

Gil took a deep breath. Long ago, he'd sworn he'd made it easy on Greg if –and when- this moment came.

It was the least he could do.

"Greg -" he started. He wanted to say something meaningful but couldn't think of anything. There was, however, something he knew he should have said the minute he saw Greg in his office. "I'm sorry."

Greg looked up cautiously but didn't say anything.

Clearly, a simple 'sorry' would not do, and so Gil tried again. "I guess I shouldn't have left like that."

This drew a response from Greg, though it wasn't the one Gil was hoping for.

Instead of nodding in quiet understanding, Greg snorted noisily.

"That's an understatement, Grissom," he said. He looked at Gil in the eye, "It freaked me out, to tell you the truth. I mean, it was just a dinner invitation."

Greg's testiness put Gil on guard. He'd never seen Greg angry and he didn't want to, either. so he did what he always did whenever it looked like a coworker was losing his composure: remain level-headed and courteous.

"You're right," he said calmly.

"- a chance for us to do _something," _Greg added morosely. "I mean, we don't go out -"

"No," Gil said quietly. "We don't."

'_But we tried_,' he thought. A couple of times.

Back when they were still trying to figure out what their relationship was all about, they'd gone to a baseball game, only to be caught by Brass. To Grissom, once was enough; they never went to another game.

Then they tried going to the movies, but that didn't go well either. Actually, it was a disaster, and Gil blamed himself for it. He still couldn't understand why, instead of choosing a Multiplex where they could have had their pick among dozens of violence-filled movies, (the kind that Greg liked), he'd decided to go to the Art Movie House, where there was only one theatre, snacks were non-existent, and movies were selected with a month of anticipation.

Movies made half-a-century ago.

Grissom still winced at the memory. He didn't really expect Greg to be enthusiastic about movies like Picnic and Sudden Fear, but he did hope the young man would somehow appreciate them. Instead, Greg had spent the entire time mocking the stories and the actors, calling Kim Novak the 'oldest teenager ever', and marveling at the fact that Joan Crawford was ever considered a beauty.

By the end of the night, Gil had had enough; he never issued another invitation. And since Greg rarely suggested going out, (except to eat something at Antigua, their favorite coffee shop), they never went out again.

Considering all this, Gil found Greg's complain of their lack of a social life surprising, to say the least.

The young man even sounded bitter about it.

" –so, I thought the least we could do was have dinner," he was saying; "You know, have some of my friends drop by_. I_ didn't see any problem with that -"

"You're right," Gil said calmly, "I should have stayed and explained."

"Hey, there's no need," Greg shrugged, "You don't want to meet my friends -that's ok. It seems you've got a preconceived notion of who they are and, wrong as it is, there's nothing I can do about it."

Gil raised an eyebrow in surprise. It was ironic that Greg would speak of preconceived notions, since he had it all wrong -Gil did want to meet his friends. After hearing so much about them, he'd developed some mental pictures he'd like to test for accuracy.

What he didn't want was to be introduced as Greg's new 'gay' friend, and have his sexuality become the one point of reference in a new friendship.

"But this isn't about my friends," Greg said, interrupting his thoughts. "Right? This is about you and me, and the fact that you're my boss."

Grissom nodded.

"We can hardly ignore that," he said reasonably.

Greg snorted again.

"It's been six months, Grissom," he said sarcastically. "I'd say it's a little too late to start worrying about _ethics_. After all," and this time he smiled, "It's not like you're corrupting a minor here. The way I see it, we're just two consenting adults having a little fun."

Grissom shook his head almost imperceptibly. It wasn't that simple; there were feelings involved too -his own. Just because he kept them in check didn't mean they didn't exist. But how could he even begin to explain any of this?

Greg was looking at him, obviously waiting for some kind of response. Silence lengthened between them, and this time he did nothing to break it. His smile started to fade.

Finally, he dropped his gaze. He looked disappointed; resigned. Like someone who's on the verge of making a decision he doesn't want to make...

He sighed.

"Grissom, look -" he started, just as Gil began to talk too.

"Greg, I think -"

Both stopped abruptly, then waited for the other to begin. For a moment, all they did was stare at each other, neither one of them daring to say a word.

In other circumstances, they would have probably found the situation very funny.

To Grissom, it was mostly pathetic.

"Greg," he started, then paused to take a deep breath. It wasn't easy, what he was about to say -but he never got to say it, 'cause just as he opened his mouth again, two men suddenly barged into his office.

Warrick and Nick.

Warrick put a big hand on Greg's shoulder.

"Hey, look who's here," he said, grinning widely.

Greg forced himself to smile before glancing over his shoulder.

"Hey, guys," he said easily. "How's it going?"

Warrick was all smiles but Nick seemed genuinely puzzled to see his friend there.

"Greggo? I thought you were still on vacation."

"Yeah, well -" Greg shrugged. "What can I say? I can't stay away from the job."

"Is that right," Warrick said skeptically. "Oh, wait; I get it," he added. He glanced at Grissom, "He ran out of money and now he's talking you into letting him come back earlier. Am I right?"

"Yeah," Greg said cheerfully, "That's exactly what I'm doing." He tilted his head in Gil's direction, "Do you think taking him to dinner will do the trick?"

"It's not Grissom you ought to take to dinner," Warrick retorted, "It's Ecklie."

"Are you kidding me?" Greg said in mock disappointment, "Ecklie?"

"Hey, he's the one who came up with these new vacation regulations."

"Yeah," Nick said, following Warrick's lead, "He's the one you should suck up to."

"Oh, man," Greg sighed, "And here I thought it was Grissom I should be sucking up to." And this time he glanced at Gil and gave him a mischievous smile only he could see.

Grissom studiously ignored him; instead, he looked sternly at Nick.

"The swing shift started a half-hour ago. Don't you have something to do?"

Nick looked up in confusion. He probably felt Gil's reaction was unwarranted, but he didn't dare arguing.

"Uh, yeah," he muttered. He glanced at Warrick. "I think the guys from Trace have some results for us -"

"Yeah. Trace." Warrick glanced thoughtfully at Gil and then at Greg. "Well, it was great to see you both."

Gil watched them leave, then kept his gaze on the doorway even after they were out of sight. It was only reluctantly that he looked at Greg again.

The young man was smiling placidly.

"If they only knew, right?" he said, and his smile widened.

Grissom smiled despite himself.

Yes. If they only knew.

"Not that I'm gonna tell them," Greg added, the smile still in place though not as placid. "I mean, in case that's what you're worried about."

Grissom's smile faded.

"I know you won't tell," he said, but the words didn't seem to mollify Greg. There was that look of defiance in his eyes again, and something else –

Anger.

Gil winced at the sudden realization: Greg _was_ angry. But as suddenly as it appeared, it disappeared. Gone. Greg simply dropped his gaze, and that was it. By the time he looked up again, he was looking like his old good-natured self again. Once again, he was looking at Grissom, waiting for the older man to say or do something.

They were back to where they'd started.

Grissom cleared his throat.

"Greg," he started solemnly, "I think… Maybe it's time for us to -"

"Yeah." Greg said quietly. "I know. You're busy, I can see that," He glanced at the mess on the desk. "Sara says you're helping her on a case."

Gil looked up sharply; Greg had completely misunderstood but he didn't set out to correct him. It was a chance to change the subject, and he seized it.

"Yes," he said. "It should have gone to the day shift but Sara took it."

Greg smiled.

"What, she doesn't think you have enough on your plate already? I mean, you lost three of your guys. Four, if you count me."

"We manage," Gil said modestly. "And you're coming back in a week, so -"

"Maybe I should take Ecklie to dinner after all," Greg said, his smile turning mischievous again. "I could get him drunk and take a few pictures of him in a compromising position, then exchange the pictures for a chance to come back a few days earlier."

"That's blackmail," Gil said, but he was grinning, and this seemed to encourage Greg; obviously, the young man was just as relieved to be talking about something else.

He glanced at the files in front of Gil.

"So, about this new case you're working on; is it really top secret or are you just worried that looking at a dead look-alike will freak me out?"

Grissom smiled at Greg's directness.

"You're on vacation, Greg. You don't need to see the files." He paused, "But yes, he does look like you. A bit."

"So, who was he?"

"A musician."

"Whoa, really? It's been months since we had a musician on the slab. Anyone famous?"

"Not really." Gil didn't want to discuss Foster or the fact that he looked like a dead Greg Sanders. "But I did get to meet a famous conductor," he said, and he winced at how eager he sounded. He was bragging, for God's sake. And it wasn't like Burroughs was that famous, anyway; at least, not to someone in Greg's age bracket.

But Greg seemed suitably impressed.

"You did? Who?"

"This guy's teacher. James Burroughs."

To Gil's surprise, Greg immediately perked up.

"James Burroughs? _The_ James Burroughs?"

"I only know the one, why?"

"Because the James Burroughs I know, wrote the score for an opera called, 'The Sword and the Feather.'"

Gil frowned.

"Never heard of it."

"Well, shame on you, Gil Grissom. 'The Sword and the Feather' is widely regarded as the first gay opera."

"A _gay _opera?"

Greg smiled, enjoying Gil's reaction.

"You don't know anything about gay history, do you," he said indulgently. "For your information, The Sword and the Feather was the vanity project of a guy named Michael Glasgow; he wrote it, produced it and directed it, back in 1965. The film had a short run, mostly in Europe, and then quietly disappeared from the marquees till someone resurrected it during the Disco era."

He paused to take a breath, and then added, "Michael Glasgow was obviously a pseudonym, but James Burroughs did use his own name, which probably didn't do him much good. The film was a bomb."

Greg had recited the information as if he were reading it from a magazine. Now, he looked curiously at Grissom.

"If it's the same guy, he must be like 80 years old now."

It was typical of Greg to exaggerate when it came to people's ages, and Grissom scowled at him.

"Burroughs is 68, tops."

"Potato, potahto -" Greg muttered. Then he perked up, "Hey, would you like to see the movie? I've got it on DVD."

"It could be interesting," Gil said thoughtfully. He was thinking of the posters adorning Burroughs' hotel room. There was no evidence of The Sword and the Feather anywhere. Maybe the opera had proved to be an embarrassment to him.

"So, is this guy a suspect, or something? Wait," Greg said, lifting a hand, "You can't discuss the case; forget I asked."

"Actually, I'd like to know more about James Burroughs. Is he gay?"

"I don't know." Greg said slowly. He leant on the desk, "To tell you the truth, 'The Sword and The Feather' was never officially touted as a gay opera; the gay community decided it was. They read between the lines, so to speak. And since straight audiences always felt there was something, ahem, _queer_ about the main characters, well -" he shrugged.

"Was there?"

"Oh, yeah," Greg grinned. "You see, the opera's message is ostensibly about the glory of friendship, but only between guys –_these_ guys. They walk around brandishing phallic symbols in their hands… they sing songs to each other… they're sweet to each other… Too sweet, if you know what I mean." He smiled, "I can imagine straight audiences squirming."

"What's the story about?"

"Oh, you know," Greg shrugged. "The usual; a tragic love affair; men and women singing and drinking and killing each other… Men and women wearing extravagant costumes…" He perked up, "What I do remember is the guys who played the main characters. They were hot."

"That's all you remember?" Gil glared.

"Well, the movie's kinda long. Or maybe it only felt long to _me_," he added dryly. "Anyway, the story's about two guys –don Fernando and Don Carlos. They've been friends since they were kids, and -"

"_Don Carlos_?" Gil frowned.

"The story's set in Spain," Greg explained. "Anyway, these two guys have known each other forever. One grows up to become a writer; the other is a Captain of the army -"

"Oh, so that's what the title is all about, then."

"Exactly. One wrote with a feather quill, the other hacked people to pieces with a sword. They're different, but they really complement each other," Greg added, warming up to the story, "They have this sweet, tender, untroubled friendship -kind of like David and Jonathan -"

"I get the picture," Gil interrupted.

Greg smiled at Grissom's impatience.

"Wait till you _see_ the picture," he said ironically, "The scenes between these two go and on –which is ok, since they're good-looking guys, but it's bad, too, 'cause all they do is _sing_. Anyway, things are great between them till Don Carlos meets a girl -Doña Ana."

"And she falls in love with Don Fernando," Gil said, thinking of some of the operas he'd seen in the past.

"Wrong. She takes an immediately dislike to him –and I'm not talking about a cute love-hate situation, Grissom. She loathes him –which is one of the reasons women can't stand this movie, by the way. Straight or lesbian, they dislike the way women are portrayed in it. Take Doña Ana, for instance. She's unreasonably jealous; she obviously feels threatened by Don Fernando but it's never clear why -unless she knows something the audience doesn't –which is why the gay angle works so well. 'Cause if she suspects Don Fernando is gay, then it's easy to understand why she cringes every time she sees the two men together, right?"

Grissom nodded, but he was only vaguely listening. He was more interested in watching Greg. The young man was more relaxed now; he was lecturing Gil -smugly, just like he did whenever he knew something that Gil didn't- and he was enjoying every minute of it.

It seemed just like old times, Gil thought. Gone were the tentativeness and discomfort that had plagued their talks lately. They were just two colleagues discussing a movie; a gay movie, sure, but at least Greg wasn't looking furtively at him, as if he were afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing.

'This is how life should always be like,' Gil thought, and for a moment, he wished he'd never let sex and love get in the way.

"Are you listening?" Greg asked impatiently.

Grissom frowned at the tone, but didn't comment on it.

"I am," he said calmly; and to prove it, he repeated the last part of the story, "Doña Ana manages to break up the friendship by making it look like they've betrayed each other." He frowned, "She must be very cunning to manage that."

"Nah, she's not. She's just surrounded by stupid people."

Gil was surprised at Greg's vehemence.

"You really don't like this movie, do you?"

"Meh," Greg shrugged, "The story's not that good. I just watch it for the two guys; they're -"

"Hot," Gil interrupted testily, "I know; you've already told me."

Greg paused, his eyebrows raised as if Gil had just said something out of the ordinary.

"Anyway," Greg said slowly, still looking closely at Grissom, "Don Fernando decides to take revenge by seizing Don Carlos' properties –he's in the army, so it's easy for him. But just as his revenge is about to be complete, a third friend who's known about Doña Ana's plot all along, finally tells him the truth. Enraged, Don Fernando goes to Don Carlos' home and kills Doña Ana in what's got to be the bloodiest scenes in the history of opera –or so the blurb on the DVD cover says," he quipped.

"Is it?"

"Well…I guess," Greg hesitated. "He hacks her to pieces, but we don't get to see the actual murder; we only see the aftermath. But whoever staged this thing really did his homework, Gil; the blood spatter looks very realistic."

Grissom blinked. It was the first time Greg called him by his first name, and the effect was oddly thrilling.

Greg, caught up in his story-telling, didn't notice his slip.

"Anyway," he continued, "Don Carlos, who's in his death-bed -"

"In his death-bed? Why?"

"He had a stroke -didn't I mention that?"

"No, you did not."

Greg chuckled. "Sorry. I really suck at this," he admitted. "There's always some little detail I forget to mention. But you'll get to see everything when you see the movie."

"What were you going to say about Don Carlos?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Well, he finds out that his friend never betrayed him, and so he drags himself out of bed and sets out to look for Don Fernando, who's out there wandering in the castle, still covered in Doña Ana's blood and claiming he's gonna kill himself. And that's how the story ends, with them dying in each other's arms –after one last song about their friendship." He looked up. "And that's it."

"That's not _it,_" Gil retorted, "What about the music?"

Greg shrugged.

"I think you'd be a better judge of that than me. You're the expert." He glanced curiously at Gil, "So, this guy Burroughs is alive, huh?"

"Barely," Grissom said, thinking of the frail man whose hands shook so much.

"I thought you said he was only 68. Is he sick?"

"I'm not sure," Gil said thoughtfully. Grief could account for Burroughs' shakiness, but the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if there was another reason. He could have inadvertently overdosed on medication, for instance. Or forgotten to take his meds. It didn't seem probable, not with his sister watching over him, but –

"Hey, do you think you can get me his autograph?"

"Why?" Gil frowned, "I thought you hated opera."

"He's a part of history, Grissom. Our history," Greg added pointedly. "And I don't really hate opera; I've been pretty impressed by some. But this one… it lacks something. It lacks -"

"Passion?"

"Exactly," Greg said, clearly pleased with Gil's perception. It was actually Brass' perception, but Grissom didn't bother to add that. "Or maybe I just expect too much from the story. It's just not very good. I mean, bad guys should raise some reaction from the public, right? They should inspire indignation, or something. But here, they just make you roll your eyes. And the good guys, well, they're just stupid."

"And you don't want your heroes to be stupid," Gil nodded, "Especially if they're gay. The question is, are they really gay?"

Greg paused for a moment.

"Personally, I think they are. I just wish they were more open about it. Then the story would make more sense."

"Well, you have to put yourself within the context of the times," Grissom said reasonably. "Think about it; how true to his –or her- feelings could the author really be? To write an openly gay opera at a time when homosexuality was still condemned? Even now it would be considered a bold move. Besides, even a lousy play can have a moral," he added, "Here, the message gets through loud and clear: 'Beware of jealousy.""

"Ah, but then where would opera be without jealousy and all lowly feelings that plague men?"

Grissom lifted an eyebrow. It sounded like Greg was quoting someone, but he couldn't quite place who.

Greg merely chuckled.

"So, shall I get you a copy of the movie?"

"Yes," Gil said, "Please."

"Ok, then."

Silence fell once again. They looked at each other, their smiles tentative. There were things still unsaid between them and they knew it; talking about the movie didn't solve anything -it only gave them a reprieve. But Gil for one was grateful. He didn't want to face the truth about their relationship -not yet. Certainly not in his office.

"So," Greg said. "What are your plans for today? You're pulling another double shift?"

Gil shook his head.

"I'm going home," he said. "I only stopped by to check on my messages."

"Oh." Greg brightened up, "Hey, why don't you come over? After all, I still owe you one."

Gil winced. Greg was obviously referring to his abrupt departure in the morning. He'd left just as Greg had started to show him his _appreciation._

"What do you think?" Greg asked, looking closely at him, gauging his reaction. Gil's silence only made him bolder. "Or maybe I could do something about it, right here," he said softly. He leant forward. "All I'd have to do is close the door and lower the blinds… walk around the desk and push your chair back… " He smiled faintly.

Gil gulped. It was a crazy idea, and Greg's smile probably meant he was only joking, but he couldn't help feeling tempted. The problem was that vivid imagination of his; in his mind, he could easily picture Greg doing all those things and getting away with it. To his surprise, he was instantly aroused; his body had reacted to Greg's words as surely as if the young man had touched him.

It was amazing…Thrilling. Scary as hell too.

Somehow, he managed to get a hold of himself.

Meanwhile, Greg didn't seem to notice his conflict.

"Or, how about this," he said good-naturedly, "Come over tomorrow; have breakfast with me. I'll cook you an omelet for a change."

Gil eyed him skeptically.

"Do you know _how_?"

"Hey, don't get snotty with me. How hard can it can be? All you gotta do is break a couple of eggs, beat them, pour them into a lightly-greased pan -" he waved his hands in the air as he spoke, vaguely imitating those actions. "It's easy."

"Oh really?" Gil leant on his desk, "What about the salt?"

"Oh, yeah," Greg frowned, "The salt. Ooookay. Let me start again, then: Beat a couple of eggs, add a pinch of salt –and a pinch from anything green I can find in my kitchen…"

Grissom smiled.

"The only green thing in your kitchen's that ratty Brillo pad you keep behind the sink."

It was probably Gil's first real smile of the day, and Greg looked gratified by it.

"I'll buy something green, then," he offered. "So, what do you say? Are you coming?"

Grissom shook his head.

"I can't," he said regretfully. "I haven't gone home in two days; I have things to do. Then I'll have to come back here," he glanced at the reports on his desk. "I'll probably have to stay in all day tomorrow."

"Oh." Greg hesitated, "Ok. Then how about this? Come to dinner tomorrow night. No friends," he added pointedly, "That's a promise. I'll order us some food. Tai, Chinese... Or I could order a pizza -Chicago style."

Grissom perked up.

"Deep dish?"

"Very deep," Greg said huskily, giving the words a whole new meaning.

And who could resist that? Not Grissom.

"All right," he said, "I'll come over, then."

"Good," Greg said, and he rose from his seat. "It's settled, then. We'll have pizza, and maybe some wine." He took a couple of steps to the door, then added, "_Then_ we'll talk."

* * *

TBC


End file.
